I’ve been wanting to write a text about feathers for a long time. No, I’m not an ornithology specialist, that has nothing to do with it. What interests me is the feather as a symbol of Aboriginal identity. Otherwise, what would there be? The drum maybe, the canoe, the snowshoe… But the feather is the feather.
Let’s start with lightness.
This is the story of a 13-year-old girl who has her first summer job as a tour guide in her community of Wendake. She had been warned that tourists, mostly French-speaking Europeans, sometimes asked strange questions. So she went behind the counter to tell visitors what there was to see in her village. No questions or unusual requests. The tourists wanted to see feathered “Indians.” She knew it. She pointed to the reconstructed traditional Onhoua Chetek8e site on a map. Then, behind her, a man in his thirties asked a question: “But at what age do your feathers grow?” He was serious. You don’t believe me? It’s true. I laughed politely, then explained. A visitor also asked a colleague if it hurt when feathers grew. Ouch! Literally and figuratively.
Fortunately, we’re not there anymore, but in the early 1990s, it was still like that. Not all the time, not everyone, but enough to remember it.
It is therefore not for nothing that the feather is for me the supreme symbol of our indigenous identity. It is true that the choice of feather, its number, its color, its arrangement, all of this has a meaning for those who know how to read… feathers.
It’s funny because at the very moment I’m writing these lines, right where I am, a big wild turkey has just appeared two meters from me, beyond the windows of my office located in the middle of the forest. Wild turkey feathers are precisely those that my people use to make their headdresses. And here it is again. I’m sure that the elders would have something to say about this coincidence, which came as a gift. I continue…
This summer I attended two powwows. The main feature was the Native dancers with their magnificent regalia. There was also the sound of drums and the piercing chants of the men. Then, the Wannabe.
You’ve never heard of this nation? The Wannabe are actually the “Want-to-be” (or “je-veux-être” in French), non-natives who dress in fringed leather jackets or dresses, feather headbands, wear moccasins and sometimes let out cries borrowed from Hollywood Westerns when the drum beats. They are a nation on the verge of extinction, yes, but they are still here. The last, the most tenacious, those who know more than you about your totem animal (sic), certainly did not get the memo about cultural appropriation.
I can guess the reaction of some of you: how can dressing as an “Indian” be disturbing? It’s a form of recognition, right? In my opinion, at this point, it’s no longer the case. A tribute would be, as a wink, to wear a cultural element made by an indigenous craftsman: earrings, moccasins, a bracelet, but the whole kit with feathers, it’s a no. Parsimony, humility…
Anyway… Feathers… I don’t wear any. On my few traditional clothes, I have moose hair instead (oh! it would be cool to see one) and beads of all kinds: shell, glass, wood, porcupine (yes, you can make long beads with quills).
Do I feel more Wendat when I wear my clothes during ceremonies? No. Being indigenous happens first and foremost on the inside. But more proud, yes.
Wearing traditional clothing is first and foremost about honoring the ancestors and their teachings, and communicating better with them. But for that, you have to know these teachings.
I’m telling you all this because during an interview I gave for the release of my most recent book, Ice cubes like glassthe host introduced me by saying that I was “in the Western culture quite affirmed”. What to say… I smiled, but I did not explain. The nuances take a long time to plant and even longer to grow. And then, I know who I am. But with these few words from the host, I instantly found myself behind the desk of the tourist center where I worked in 1990.
Clothes don’t make the man. Not at all. Those who have taught me the most about my culture, about the land, are the simplest people I know, often people of few words, in fact. In addition to teaching me how to harvest bark from a birch tree or how to navigate a lake in a canoe, they have shown me that the path to my roots goes through humility, gratitude and patience. That’s what I try to wear to show who I am.
Because playing “Indians”, even with the most beautiful pens in the world, without the teachings and respect, will always remain just a game.
What do you think? Express your opinion