Suddenly, all the doubt he had Began to fade away The days of his hidden self Would have to stop today
Lisez l’histoire de Simone Blais
Toronto, ON
Metis Nation of Ontario
Âge 17
One re-occurring theme in metis history is hidden identities. I have witnessed it in my own family and in the many other metis families that I’ve come to know. Often, we find a distance between what we look like, what we feel like, and what’s in our blood.
For generations now, so many of the metis have looked white. And many of them chose to pass because it made life easier. I will never blame any of those who chose to pass because I can’t imagine the difficulty of the choice they had to make. For many metis, hiding their identity meant avoiding residential school. For others, it meant getting a job or living without discrimination.
But hiding who you are can come with a heavy price. There is a burden you must carry in knowing that generations of culture and wisdom will not be passed on. And there is a certain sorrow in having to lift up layers of shame and denial in order to find out who your ancestors were.
My story attempts to deal with this difficult choice. I am sure it is the story of many. It is the story of the inner conflict between who we feel like we are, what we look like we are, what our blood tells us we are.
Along the wide highway,
Push made his way home
His empty pockets sagging
A hidden burden making him moan
Somewhere in the darkness
He heard the sirens blare
The ring was fast approaching
But this time he didn’t care
He wouldn’t hide in the bushes
He wouldn’t even run
He knew this was as dangerous
As sticking out a thumb
As the car pulled up beside him
The young boy didn’t blink
The way the cop looked at him
He didn’t know what to think.
The cop smiled warmly
With a smile white and bright
“Let me take you home, son.
Looks like you’ve had a long night.”
He stepped into the car
And out of the piercing cold
“Where you headed?” the cop asked
With no intention to scold
The rez up the road, push answered
And the silence became heavy
The cop didn’t say a word
But he suddenly seemed unsteady
The wheels began to slow
As his heart began to quicken
The cop was pulling over
As Push’s stomach started to sicken
The cop turned around in his seat
And fed Push the words
Which he would have to eat
“Get out of my car, Indian.”
Said the man behind the wheel
Get out of my car, Indian.
Each word felt like a whole meal.
As a metis native he knew
That he could pass as white
But erasing his peoples history
Didn’t feel entirely right
Push remembered the first time
That he had been defined
Choose who you are, his teacher had said:
The savage or the kind?
How can I choose to be only half of my blood?
The young Push had asked
Without it I would probably die,
Fall to the ground with a thud!
The problem was that Push felt white
And Indian at the same time
He could not seem to understand
The colonizer’s paradigm
Now, ten years later
His teachers are not the same
But the choices that they left him with
Incessantly remain
Push remembered how he had searched
In the lake for a different perception
But instead, all he found in the water
Was his own reflection
Skin; as pale as a white rabbit’s fur
Hair; blonde like a wheat field
Blue eyes as sharp as the morning sky
“You could be white,” his reflection told him
European as can be
Forget about the other half
Your secret will be safe with me
As Push stumbled out of the car that night
He tried to remember what it meant
To be an Indian in this world
Without the constant torment
He put his hand to his soft cheek
And closed his eyes in pain
The shame of hiding one half inside
The other demon would always remain
He remembered the way his mother whispered to him
When she was scared he would be taken away
But as he began to recall her words,
They were whispered in ojibwe
What was the benefit
In being native today
It seemed to only get you disrespect
And fines you couldn’t pay
Why should I take pride
if it will only bring me pain?
When I say I’m native
It always seems to rain
Push continued to walk along,
Making his way back home
But he saw a girl up ahead
Who was sitting all alone
He came up to see
if she was doing alright
But her fearful eyes reminded him
That his appearance was male and white
Baakishin, he said
Open up to me, it’s alright
Although the language was familiar tongue
She looked like a house without a light
Anishinaabe kwe! he said
Claim this as your place
Stand up tall for who you are
Although you might be displaced!
Suddenly, all the doubt he had
Began to fade away
The days of his hidden self
Would have to stop today
Don’t you know who you are? He said
You’re a beautiful Indian girl
Don’t you know what that really means?
You’re an important part of this world
We protect the land and people
Extremely proud and strong
I don’t care what percentage I am
Ill be a metis lifelong
Hold your head up high! he said
Do not hide your face
Wear your colours on your shoulder
The blood you cannot erase
My blood does not divide itself
Like Moses parted the seas
Inside of me is a culture, strong
More than the eyes can see
Push took the girl’s hand
Who looked uncertain but intrigued
Then they stood up tall together
And together they believed
I come from a line of strong warrior men
And I will protect my people
But I can balance my love for the powwow
With my love for the church and the steeple
We cannot change the things
Which have been done and said
But we can change the future
And the things which lie up ahead
Although she was still quite shy
The girl began to sing
Soft at first, then growing
Like pushes on a swing
Waaay heya
Way heya heyo
Waaay heya
Waay heya hey hiyo
The strong woman song mingled
With the roar of the cars going by
And Push found in his throat
An ancient warrior cry
He would fight to be who he was
Although he looked so white
He would always hold his head up high
Singing the songs of his ancestors’ fight