Take Us to Your Chief

Take Us to You
r Chief

Take Us to Your Chief

And Other Stories

Drew Hayden Taylor

Douglas & M
c
Intyre

Copyright © 2016 Drew Hayde
n Taylor

1 2 3 4 5 — 20 19 18 17 16

 

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c
Intyre (
2013) Ltd.

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e Wilensky

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Foreword

Welcome to the new
terra nullius
, or as Shakespeare referred to it so well in
Hamlet
, “the undiscovered country.” Or more fittingly, as stated in another classic using possibly the most famous split infinitive in history, you are about to “boldly go where no one has gon
e before.”

A million years ago when I was a child, I was always fascinated by what could be. I think this was primarily because I was surrounded by what is and what was. As a Native person, I was constantly and importantly made aware of our heritage, our culture, everything from the past that made us unique and special. Also I was conscious of the fact that, technologically speaking, we were at a bit of a disadvantage compared to those who showed up one day for dinner and never left. I clearly remember the first time I saw television, played with a computer, got an electric toothbrush, etc. Darn clever, those white people. Native people constantly wonder at the clever innovations and devices the dominant culture feels the need to create—everything from vibrators to nuclea
r bombs.

Admittedly, First Nations and science fiction don't usually go together. In fact, they could be considered rather unusual topics to mention in the same sentence, much like fish and bicycles. As genre fiction goes, they are practically strangers, except for maybe the occasional parallel universe story. Many would argue that Native people are not known for their space-travelling abilities. Nor their mastery and innovation of that aforementioned modern and world-altering technology. We may have known what to do with every part of a buffalo, but how to cannibalize and utilize the parts from an Apple laptop to make a pair of moccasins… the less said th
e better.

Many people's only contact with Native sci-fi is that famous episode from the original
Star Trek
series called “The Paradise Syndrome,” where Kirk loses his memory and ends up living with some transplanted Indigene on a faraway planet. These Aboriginal folks came complete with black wigs, standard 1960s headbands and fringed miniskirts. More recently there was the not-so-successful mixed-genre movie
Cowboys
&
Aliens
. But in between, the pickings were and are lean and hard t
o find.

I grew up reading science fiction or, as it's sometimes called, speculative fiction (which in itself is a controversial term, since at its essence, isn't all fiction speculative?). First it was comic books, then television, then pulp novels and finally what could be called the good stuff. My first serious sci-fi literary crush was H. G. Wells. I read and reread
The Time Machine
and
The Invisible Man
too many times to count. Discovered and devoured the first generation of masters including Jules Verne and H. P. Lovecraft (many consider him more of a horror writer, but I like to think he goes both ways) and so on up through the Golden Age of Science Fiction and into the more contemporar
y contributors.

To me, sci-fi was a world of possibilities. As a fan of writing, why shouldn't my fascination extend to such unconventional works? It was still writing, still literature in all its glory, but here they used different tools to explore the human condition, be they aliens, advanced technology or other such novel approaches. That was my intention with this collection of short stories. I wanted to take traditional (a buzzword in the Native community) science-fiction characteristics and filter them through an Aboriginal consciousness. That is what you are holding in you
r hands.

Previously I dabbled a bit, sort of flirted with this concept over the decades. In my very first play,
Toronto at Dreamer's Rock
, three sixteen-year-old boys from three different time periods meet at the top of a magical rock where boys have gone for thousands of years to have a vision quest. In another play,
alterNatives
, one of the characters is a twenty-four-year-old Ojibway man who wants to write science fiction (no relation). His partner dismisses the genre and wants him to write the great Canadian novel, and the drama (and comedy) begins.

I am an old hand at hybridizing. Perhaps it goes all the way back to my
DNA
—I'm half Ojibway and half… not. Combining genres of writing is a favourite hobby of mine. Over the years I've written Native comedies, what could be called a Native magic-realism novel, a Native vampire book and graphic novel, a Native musical, and so on… Why not Native science fiction? It seemed the time was finall
y right.

This book, for me, is also part of a larger personal expedition in the world of First Nations writing. Part of my journey in this life both as a First Nations individual and as a writer is to expand the boundaries of what is considered Native literature. I have always believed that literature should reflect all the different aspects and facets of life. There is more to the Indigenous existence than negative social issues and victim narratives. Thomas King has a collection of Aboriginal murder mysteries. Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm has published an assortment of Indigenous erotica, and Daniel Heath Justice has written a trilogy of adventure novels featuring elves and other fantastic characters. Out of sheer interest and a growing sense of excitement, I wanted to go where no other (well, very few) Native writers had gone before. Collectively, we have such broad experiences and diverse interests. Let's explore that in our literature. Driving home my point, we have many fabulous and incredibly talented writers in our community, but some critics might argue our literary perspective is a little too predictable—of a certain limited perspective. For example, a lot of Indigenous novels and plays tend to walk a narrow path specifically restricted to stories of bygone days. Or angry/dysfunctional aspects of contemporary First Nations life. Or the hangover problems resulting from centuries of colonization. All worthwhile and necessary reflections of Aboriginal life for sure. But I wonder why it can't b
e more?

Now, as we're well into the twenty-first century, the time has come to explore the concept of Native Science Fiction, a phrase that I submit should no longer be considered a literar
y oxymoron.

It's frequently said how difficult being a writer can be. But on occasion, it is a hell of a lot of fun. Yes, so many projects are labours of love. This, I am delighted to say, was truly a labour o
f fun.

Drew Hayde
n Taylor

Curve Lake First Nation, Ontario

May 2016 (Stardate 6129.6)

A Culturally Inappropriate Armageddon

Part 1

C-RES Is on the Air

April 27, 1991

Emily Porter was exceptionally nervous. It was a very big day, but she seemed to be the only one who cared about its significance. Aaron Bomberry and Tracey Greene hadn't arrived at the station yet, and they, too, were scheduled to begin their broadcasting careers in fifteen minutes, at high noon. Where the hell were they? This was her brainchild… Okay, maybe the other two had helped deal with the grants and the complex and mercurial powers that be at the band office and various levels of government, but
C-
RES
had her blood and sweat all over it. If it had had
DNA
, it would have bee
n hers.

The first community radio station on her reserve, one of the first of its type in this part of Canada—this was her baby. She planned to nurse it for the rest of her life. The world needed changing, she thought, and she was just the person to do it… well, at least her part of it, by providing news, weather, sports, music and talk about and for the Iroquois people of her community. Standing out on the dirt driveway, she looked up and saw the huge antenna towering above her, as if giving that distant high-flying 747 the finger. That humongous chunk of metal and wires had taken five years of rattling government and corporate offices, shaking down money, often, it seemed, pennies at a time. But there it was, standing tall, beautiful and on this bright sunny Monday, about to broadcast in 250 glorious watts the spirit of he
r people.

While the station was being constructed, Emily spent endless hours hammering out the broadcast schedule, the shows and hosts, the content and personnel. Now, in fourteen minutes, she and her small community would make history. It was a glorious moment. So where was everybody? Not even their brand-new news reporter was here to cover the event. Not exactly an auspicious beginning. Worse, it looked like it was going to rain. Her grandmother would have said it was a bad sign, but she also believed cats were little furry demons that coughed up hairballs o
n purpose.

If Aaron was in town at another movie, Emily was going to kill him. Aaron was a technical whiz. She had employed him to wire the whole place together. After that, she promoted him to radio technician. Why he would prefer the world of science fiction films to the excitement of operating a radio station, Emily couldn't understand. So as an extra incentive she had said Aaron could host a movie review show at 1:30 on Tuesday afternoons, to be repeated Saturdays at 4:00. Both Emily and Aaron knew working at the reserve radio station was as close to Hollywood as he was likely to get. Tracey agreed to the plan as long as Aaron would provide solid cinema criticism from an Iroquoian perspective—another first
C-
RES
woul
d achieve.

And Tracey? Hard to say where she was. The new station was almost as important to her as it was to Emily. Emily was the station manager—she loved that title—and Tracey was the program manager. She should be here to oversee the first-ever broadcast. Tracey had given up her job teaching conversational Mohawk at the local college to try her hand at broadcasting. She felt embracing new media would provide a future for her people. Since the Iroquoian languages were in danger of dying out, one of the promises she elicited from Emily was that the station would provide its listeners with weekly on-air language classes and traditional music. Emily doubted the ratings would be stratospheric, but still, it was a good thing to do. This was, after all, a community radio station, emphasis o
n
community
.

Thirteen minutes to go and still no sign of either. Near the chain-link fence bordering the parking lot, she spotted Karl Maracle's truck, identifiable by the dozen or so decals extolling the virtues of hunting and cats. So at least he was here… somewhere. Good old Karl—she never had to worry about him. S
o far.

Then, Emily saw a 1984 Toyota Corolla rolling up the long driveway. Finally! She realized she'd been holding her breath and exhaled wit
h relief.

Tracey's feet hadn't even touched the gravel before the apologies started. “Sorry I'm late. I was doing an interview with the
CBC
about the new Kanien'kéha language immersion program we're starting at the communit
y centre.”

As always, Tracey preferred the correct name for their people, Kanienké'hà:ka, which translated to “People of the Flint Place,” instead of Mohawk, a name given to them by white people. Tracey knew people in many of the other nations in the Iroquois Confederacy—Cayuga, Tuscarora, Seneca, Onondaga and Oneida—felt the same. When she was growing up, Emily's family had always used the term Mohawk, and Tracey was determined to break her of that, as well as the I-word. You did not say Iroquois around Tracey, only Haudenosaunee, under penalty of a withering glance and
a lecture.

“This was the only time they could fit me in,” Trace
y continued.

Today, Tracey's skirt and patterned top were both red, her favourite colour. Even her hair had a touch of auburn t
o it.

“Did you mention the station? Huh? Di
d you?”

Emily felt it was imperative to establish the success of the station immediately. Everything in the universe must revolve around the healthy birth of the station. It was an old midwives' belief—a good, proper birth led to a good, proper life. Without waiting for an answer, Emily grabbed Tracey's arm and hurried her through the front doors and into the lobby of
C-
RES
, as in “the Res,” as the employees were required to call it. Again, Emily's idea—clever, funny, punchy an
d memorable.

Stopping just inside the door, Tracey tried to stamp the mud off her feet—no need to destroy the new carpeting so soon—but Emily's enthusiasm would not be deterred. Dragging Tracey along, Emily made her way into the interview room, where guests would sit and chat with the
DJ
o
r host.

“Yes, I did, but there are things happening in this world other than this radi
o station.”

“No, there aren't. Today it's radio station, radio station, radio station. Only radio station. Where's Aaron? He's late. He's very late. Aaron should be here.” Emily tended to repeat key words as she got more and mor
e agitated.

“I'm right behind you.” Indeed, there was Aaron, halfway through an apple, wearing his ubiquitous Batma
n
T
-shirt.

Emily was perplexed. “I didn't see you com
e in.”

Biting off a huge chunk of fruit, Aaron sat down with a thump in the technician's chair. “I live about a hundred metres over there, remember? I would have driven but I'm kind of low on gas.” He chomped. “There a problem, honeybutt?”

Emily and Aaron had dated for two years back in high school, and he still liked to use his old nickname for her. It usually infuriated her, but then, of course, that was the point. He twisted his neck with a flick to swing his combination ponytail/mullet free from between his back and th
e chair.

“Geez, I wasn't sure you'd show up. And don't call me that. We'r
e professionals.”

“Yes, here I am. And yes we are.” It was then that Aaron noticed the full pot of coffee across the room. For him, this was an auspicious sign. He got up to get himself a cup. “You seem kind of… excited.”

Tracey nodded. “Yeah, doesn'
t she?”

Aaron nodded, his eyes sweeping the interview room. “We got any milk?” Coffee was not coffee without milk, be it skim, cream or Carnation. “Probably not,” he said to himself. He was the only one at the station who drank his coffee wit
h milk.

As usual, Emily was ignoring Aaron and his coffee fixation. “I hope Ontario and Canada are ready for
C-
RES
. Eight minutes t
o go.”

“You do realize we are just adding to the cosmic radio pollution this planet is giving off. We are like the radio-wave oil spill of the galaxy,” Aaron said. The interview room, probably the entire building, was milk free. There was a farm next door, and logic suggested to Aaron that quite possibly a cow was located somewhere on th
e premises.

Emily was pacing back and forth across the narrow hallway, stealing glances at the clock. “What are you talkin
g about?”

Deciding to bite the bullet, Aaron took his first sip of black coffee. It was strong and harsh, but strong and harsh coffee was better than n
o coffee.

“Oh, good! I get to give
you
a history lesson.” He sat back down in his command chair. “Ever since Marconi and his wireless telegraph experiments, then the creation of radio broadcasting early last century, and then short-wave, television and every other method of transmitting anything, radio waves have been spilling out into space. In every direction. Travelling at the speed of light.
C-
RES
is just going to add to that mess. Right now, solar systems sixty to eighty light-years away are receiving radio broadcasts of
Amos 'n' Andy
and
The Lon
e Ranger
.”

Tracey said, “Oh great, now aliens are going to think all Native people talk with personal-pronou
n problems.”

“That's just fascinating, Aaron,” Emily lied. “Feel free to mention that at the next board meeting.” Why had she ever dated this guy? And why did she ever hir
e him?

“I'm just sayin',” Aaron rolled on, “we are joining a crowded room where everybody'
s talking.”

Suddenly, the host of the inaugural show on
C-
RES
brushed by them carrying a giant Tim Hortons cup. Karl Maracle was the only one of the four who actually had radio experience. Two years of college and four years of working at a small station in Mississauga had made him the station's most valuable employee. The problem was Karl was forty-six and hadn't done any radio in eightee
n years.

“I hope I remember where everything is. Good luck, guys!” Karl raised both fists in an enthusiastic “Let's-go-get-'em” gesture that to Emily seemed slightly hostile. Aaron wondered if there was milk in Karl's big cup o
f coffee.

Behind her back, Emily crossed her fingers. It was a silly habit but a hard one to break, she knew. Tracey gave Emily a good luck kiss on the cheek, and Aaron celebrated the launch of the station by eating his apple core. “Hailing frequencies open, Captain,” h
e added.

Emily managed to say, “Break a leg, Karl.”

“Actually,” interjected Tracey, “in the Native community, it's more correct to say ‘wound
a knee.
'
”

“So wound a knee!” Emily and Tracey said it together, and with a determined look on his face, Karl stepped into the sound booth for his first noon-to-four shift.
C-
RES
was on th
e air!

October 10, 1998

Emily was growing increasingly weary of these conversations. In a million years, she had never thought her station would devolve into the classic battle of ratings versus content. But it had. Emily was responsible for getting the bills paid. Tracey was in charge of feeding the souls of their listeners. But for some reason, Tracey's grasp of what could be done with a radio station never really developed beyond using it as a teaching tool. Yes, that was one of its functions, and it could be a pretty strong teacher. But people don't like to be taught all the time. People like fun and, quite frequently, to hear what the other 30 million people in the country are listenin
g to.

“I don't know, Tracey,” Emil
y said.

“You have to do it. We have to do it. It's part of ou
r mandate.”

“Look, Tracey…”

“I hate it when you say ‘look,'” Tracey said. “I
am
looking. I'm not blind, but you might be. I know what this community needs.” Today, she was dressed in a cerulean blu
e motif.

Sitting behind her desk, Emily sighed what must have been her seventh or eighth sigh of the morning, if anybody was counting. Already it felt like it was going to be a long day. “Maybe, but I know what this statio
n needs.”

“What do you have against the Kanien'kéha language?” Tracey placed her knuckles on Emily's desk and leaned forward in an attempt to get closer. Walking around the desk to face Emily directly might have seemed a littl
e aggressive.

“That's a stupid question and you know it. I have constantly supported you and your cultural programming, but occasionally you, Ms. Greene, have to tune in to reality. We have your language show. We have you
r Mohawk—”

“Kanien'kéha.”

“Kanien'kéha, then, your Kanien'kéha cooking show. Your Kanien'kéha fashion report. You've only done four shows and already you're running out of topics for the fashion show. I even let you have your specials. The one about the existential view of Kanien'kéha was actually interesting. ‘I think Kanien'kéha, therefore I am Kanien'kéha.'” Emily paused in the hope that her compliment would take the edge off Tracey's stance. No suc
h luck.

“Let's be honest, Tracey,” Emily continued in a softer voice. “Your audience is dwindling. Even Aaron's Kanien'kéha interpretation of
Starship Troopers
, the radio play, had better ratings than your latest Kanien'kéha programming. People just aren't interested in our language. And I'm talking about
ou
r
people.”