> CD #97: Truth and reconciliation

Over the weekend here in Canada, we had a National Day for Truth and Reconciliation to commemorate the shameful history and ongoing impact of residential schools on Indigenous communities. The day is also known as Orange Shirt Day, named after a grassroots Indigenous-led movement to raise awareness of the stripping away of culture, freedom, and self-esteem experienced by Indigenous children over many generations.

While it’s nice to have a day of reflection each year, truth and reconciliation must happen continuously, with a level of effort we may not always be prepared to give. While I wear my orange shirt to show support for the cause, I’m also very aware that I could do more to demand that my government take action to dismantle systemic racism, as well as find meaningful ways to support Indigenous people on a personal level.

The key to better individual action, I think, might be in something I read recently in Ordinary Notes by Christina Sharpe. This book has been a slog for me, partly because of its intellectual tone and partly because of its devastating content, as Dr. Sharpe shows us how impossible life is for Black women in America. In the book, she talks about how White Americans must move from GUILT to GRIEF in order to truly grapple with the impacts of slavery. She explains her thoughts in this interview:

Guilt is a kind of distanced relationship. Grief, I think, speaks about entanglement. I keep using the word entanglement, but grief, I think, positions you inside the thing, and guilt positions you at a distance. And so that movement is a movement that says, this is my history and I have to do something about it.

As opposed to, I feel so bad, and then moving on. Grief is something that also engages the whole body, and it says that I’m actually in this. It’s a difference between working on something because you know that you are somehow implicated in it and it affects you, versus allyship, which is again a kind of distance positioning. And a kind of philanthropic position as opposed to like, this is my work to do.

Stories, I believe, are one way to encourage a movement from guilt to grief—especially those that draw you into their creators’ lived experiences. So this week, I’d love to recommend the work of a few Indigenous creators whose stories have stayed with me.

• Five Little Indians, Michelle Good’s novel about residential school survivors, won Canada Reads 2022 and a bunch of other literary awards, becoming a national bestseller and instant classic. Sometimes I’m suspicious of novels that garner so much attention, but this one is the real deal. I got to meet Michelle when we were serving on a grant jury together, and she is also the real deal. She worked for 25 years with Indigenous organizations, then obtained a law degree in her 40s so she could advocate for residential school survivors—and THEN she did an MFA in creative writing, publishing her first book in her 60s. HERO. She has a new book of essays out this fall, and I am so looking forward to it.

• If you prefer literary writing that is a little less mainstream, God Isn’t Here Today is Francine Cunningham’s debut short story collection. Her stories are wholly modern, darkly chilling and experimental in the best way. Francine is also a screenwriter, children’s book writer, award-winning poet AND the 2023–24 Canadian Writer-in-Residence at the University of Calgary. Book a free manuscript consultation with her!

• Nishga by Jordan Abel is one of my favourite books from the past few years because it exploded my concept of what a book could be. A multi-genre work of creative non-fiction that brings together prose, poetry, images of archival documents, transcripts and illustrations, Nishga is about trying to create something whole out of a fragmented identity. It’s a stunning work.

• Reservation Dogs, one of the best television shows out there, is really difficult to describe. It is ostensibly a comedy, but can also be emotionally devastating at the same time. Each episode feels like, as many TV reviewers have noted, a small miracle. (Warning: This link contains final season spoilers, and I myself have only read half the article because I still have four episodes left to go.) Reservation Dogs is a testament to what can happen when you let people (in this case, an all-Indigenous cast, crew and writers room) tell their own stories—and also when you give a poets like Tommy Pico a job in television.

If, after you read and watch these beautiful stories, you feel moved to do even one small thing, please consider donating to the Indian Residential School Survivors Society.

:) Teresa

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