Halfbreed Page 19
The workers in the fields talked to us readily about conditions there. They said some of them were brought from their home areas in large buses. The drivers would stop and herd them all out every so many miles so that they could relieve themselves at the side of the roads. There was no privacy from each other or from traffic passing by on the flat prairie. The bosses shortchanged them on the work, and food prices were sky-high because they had to buy canned goods that were quick to prepare and would not spoil in the heat. If they complained they were fired. The bosses who had large crews also had their own commissaries, so that when it was time to pay the crews, a third of their wages went to pay the bills they owed.
The whole sugar-beet area was the same. The car lots sold cars to Native people at high prices, and they broke down in a couple of weeks. The money the workers made never left the community. We could not even scratch the surface of the problem in a week. A report was made, but very little was ever said about it in public. It was too ugly.
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When we got back, Stan became very involved with the proposed Alberta Native Federation, thinking that through this organization he would be able to see justice done. I went to many of their meetings, but my concerns for Native people in the city did not fit in with their immediate plans, and then too, women were not encouraged to attend unless a secretary was needed.
Eugene Steinhauer, Jack Bellerose and Jim Ducharme, with the help of Community Development, drew up a proposal to be presented to the Indian reserves and Metis colonies. The idea was to use the Saul Alinsky tactic of strength in numbers and speak to government with one voice. The proposal for a federation was rejected by the Treaty Indians. They felt that the militant stand that would be taken by such an organization would jeopardize their Treaty rights. “The Halfbreeds,” they said, “have nothing to lose, so they can afford to be militant.”
In spite of this setback many things began to happen. The existing, but dormant Native organizations, founded by Jim Brady and Malcolm Norris in the 1920s, were reorganized. The Metis Association of Alberta elected Stan Daniels as their leader, and the Indian Association elected Harold Cardinal. These two groups were to be the political arm and voice for their people. The long-range plan, said the leaders, was that through education the people themselves would see the need for unity, thus making a federation possible. The general unrest among poor people throughout Canada could lead to a united voice on many issues affecting both whites and Natives.
Eugene founded the Alberta Native Communications Society, which managed the Cree radio program and a monthly newspaper to keep the people informed and aware.
It was all wonderful and exciting. The meeting halls in the Native communities were full and overflowing when the leaders came. People didn’t kowtow to the white civil servants on reserves and colonies anymore. They started talking back. There was a new feeling of pride and hope everywhere.
The Native movement grew in strength, not just here in Alberta, but across Canada. Community Development, the organization that government had created to keep white radicals busy, suddenly became very threatened. Their objective had been to phase themselves out when Native people no longer needed them. Native people didn’t need them anymore and said so. Suddenly their priority became survival. There were thousand-dollar-a-month jobs at stake if these Natives meant business. The Native leaders, whom Community Development had hand-picked—and underestimated—would not be dictated to any more. Government, seeing the handwriting on the wall, phased out Community Development and gave us money. Not very much, just enough to divide us again.
The blanket that our leaders almost threw away suddenly started to feel warm again, and they wrapped it tightly around them. Those of us who saw what was happening and spoke out against it were phased out and branded as communists.
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One spring day, in May of 1966, I got a phone call from my father. Cheechum had fallen from a runaway horse and buggy and had died almost immediately. He wanted me to come home for the funeral, but I didn’t go. All the things that were happening in Alberta were the things she had waited eighty years for, and I knew that she would have wanted me to stay in Alberta and continue working with the movement.
Cheechum lived to be a hundred and four years old, and perhaps it’s just as well that she died with a feeling of hope for our people; that she didn’t share the disillusionment that I felt about the way things turned out. My Cheechum never surrendered at Batoche: she only accepted what she considered a dishonourable truce. She waited all her life for a new generation of people who would make this country a better place to live in.
For these past couple of years, I’ve stopped being the idealistically shiny-eyed young woman I once was. I realize that an armed revolution of Native people will never come about; even if such a thing were possible what would we achieve? We would only end up oppressing someone else. I believe that one day, very soon, people will set aside their differences and come together as one. Maybe not because we love one another, but because we will need each other to survive. Then together we will fight our common enemies. Change will come because this time we won’t give up. There is growing evidence of that today.
The years of searching, loneliness and pain are over for me. Cheechum said, “You’ll find yourself, and you’ll find brothers and sisters.” I have brothers and sisters, all over the country. I no longer need my blanket to survive.
Afterword
The 1960s were an exciting time in Indian country and like many young people of my generation I wanted change, not only for myself but for our people and especially for Indigenous women and children. The young people in that generation were inspired by what was happening within Black and Indigenous peoples’ movements in the Americas as well as around the world. We were inspired that Indigenous peoples were standing up to their colonial oppressors and fighting to reclaim their cultures and lands. We devoured their writings and had long conversations with our people at home and across the country about our own situation and what we could do to change it. We travelled the country, talking and organizing meetings, protests and demonstrations. We fundraised, wrote poetry and made art. We pumped out newsletters to keep our people informed. And for the first time in our colonial histories, our elders openly held meetings with us to share ceremonies and cultural knowledge that up to that point had been hidden because of government policies. Our elders didn’t just encourage us; they demanded that we reclaim our language and traditions and make them the foundation of our work as artists, writers, intellectuals, and scholars. They reminded us that “getting an education was not an option, it was a given—a university degree had to be a part of our work for change.” They made us believe we could change the course of our history and make a new world for our children.
Fifty years ago, I could count on one hand how many people I knew with a university degree or who were even in university. There was Marie Smallface who was in second year Political Science, Harold Cardinal who was at Carleton University in Ottawa, Wilton Littlechild who was just starting his first year at the University of Alberta, and William Wuttunee from the Red Pheasant First Nation who had become a lawyer. There were a few others across the country but these were the four I knew. Today we have many people in university, coming home with not just Bachelor’s degrees, but Ph.D.’s, degrees in law, medicine, dentistry, engineering, education, social work, English, history, the arts, and architecture.
Fifty years ago I owned and treasured four books by Indigenous authors. There was Pauline Johnson, William Whipple Warren, and Basil Johnson. There was also the man I knew and worked with who was writing what ended up being one of the most important books written in the 1960s, and that was Harold Cardinal. Today I can’t afford to buy all the novels, books of poetry, essays, history, non-fiction, traditional knowledge, and law, written by Indigenous writers, scholars, and intellectuals. My bookshelves have hundreds o
f Indigenous authors, including five members of my immediate and extended family.
Fifty years ago I knew five artists, three of them personally. There was my brother Robbie, Alex Janvier, and Henry Nanooch. I had also heard of Daphne Odjig and Norval Morrisseau. Again, there were more across the country, but these were the ones I knew or knew about. Today there are so many I can never hope to know all their names. They are in galleries and celebrated across our country and the world. There are recording artists and songwriters of every genre of music, including opera. I remember only one in the sixties and he recorded country music. I knew of two filmmakers: Willie Dunn and Alanis Obomsawin. I had heard about an Indigenous film crew working with the National Film Board in Montreal, but until 1967, I had never met an Indigenous filmmaker. Today there are many, and there are even Indigenous film festivals.
In 1964 when I started to change my life around, I couldn’t have imagined all of these Indigenous scholars, writers, and artists. But in 1973 when Halfbreed was published, I did imagine it. I knew it would happen, but never at this scale. I am so proud to have been a part of this development and to have known and worked with many of the people who led the way. In particular, I am grateful for the women like Alanis Obomsawin, Daphne Odjig, Bernelda Wheeler, Jeannette Armstrong, Lee Maracle, Tantoo Cardinal, and Margo Kane. These women and others gave Indigenous women such a powerful voice, and without their support and generosity I would not have been able to do my own work. Bernelda Wheeler and Daphne Odjig are gone now, but the others continue to do their art and all the other work that it takes to hold up community.
So many of our people across this land have made huge contributions to make the world for our future generations a kinder and safer place, but there is still so much more to do. To decolonize will take many years and the total commitment of many people. In 1973 I ended the writing of Halfbreed with “I believe that one day, very soon, people will set aside their differences and come together as one. Maybe not because we love one another, but because we will need each other to survive. Then together we will fight our common enemies.” I still believe this, but sometimes it gets very difficult and I feel like running away. There is so much more I want to say, but I can’t find the words.
I owe many people a debt of gratitude for my miyo pimatisowin, my good life. My siblings, who all weathered the hard times, raised beautiful families, and have been my strength. For that, I can never repay them. My late father and aunties who, despite the poverty and racism that is the legacy of colonialism, kept us together and gave us courage and strength until they left for the spirit world. To my children, who had no choice but to come with me even when the road I took was not always so good, I say, I can never love you enough and I thank you for the beautiful grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And then there’s my Cheechum, whose ever-present spirit continues to guide me in the ways of wahkotowin.
Thank you, Alix and Deanna for the missing pages.
Jared and McClelland & Stewart for conciliation (kwayskahsahsowin).
Denise for guiding me through this and Kim for your kind words.
My lodge family for their kindness and generosity.
With love and respect,
Maria
Photo by Ted Whitecalf
MARIA CAMPBELL is a Métis writer, playwright, filmmaker, scholar, teacher, community organizer, activist, and elder. Halfbreed is regarded as a foundational work of Indigenous literature in Canada. She has authored several other books and plays, and has directed and written scripts for a number of films. She has also worked with Indigenous youth in community theatre and advocated for the hiring and recognition of Indigenous people in the arts. She has mentored many Indigenous artists during her career, established shelters for Indigenous women and children, and run a writers’ camp at the national historical site at Batoche, where every summer she produces commemorative events on the anniversary of the battle of the 1885 Northwest Rebellion. Maria Campbell is an officer of the Order of Canada and holds six honorary doctorates.