Chantel's Reviews > Welcome to Your Authentic Indian Experience TM

** spoiler alert ** Identity politics does not leave room for nuance; regardless, nuance exists in all things. Perhaps for some groups, there is no grey; the colour palette is a dual entity. Though it seems odd to those of us who would not lie to become what we are not, the adoption of an alternative truth is common practice. In the lives of people, we cannot understand & do not wish to know, the deep-rooted demise of loathing looms like a cloud, ready to drown out the rivers leading Moses out to sea.

In this short story, the narrator is a man who works with the cards he has been given. In the world of this story, your identity can be capitalized upon; you can make money, gain access to jobs, & perhaps have security because no one can take away that which is yours to give; your identity & sense of self. Though this world mirrors our own, readers might find it more enjoyable to believe that people can do this in our realm too. Certainly, one will see opportunities catered to specific groups of people or posters that highlight the ideal candidate, someone other than themselves.

The pursuit of equity comes at a cost. The penny might weigh a ton but, it is also out of fashion in my country’s economy so; one need not worry about the price to pay.

That is to say; opportunities catered to encouraging an atmosphere & tangible environment of inclusivity—both visually in bodies, culture, & data—require that the doors & the windows of the home remain unlocked. The problem arises when folks believe that opportunities are taken away from them when the yard is watered by a hose & rain. In actuality, one’s own competencies are not in question.

Somewhere along the line, we have forgotten what it means to live in society. For the narrator, this feeling is long-standing. The world in which he lives does not appreciate him as one human being might another but rather, he is valued only for his supporting role as the convenient Indian.

Where is a person to go when their lives are stolen? In a bid to find himself our narrator works a job that allows him to be who he is. The virtual reality experience provided by his employers allows people to purchase time with an authentic Indigenous person; wandering the plains; being given a Spirit Name; connecting with their Spirit Animal; etc. There is something to be said for the authenticity of a circus that offers culturally sacred practices for a dollar. Certainly, one must survive & what is in a name?

Should the question be posed to the reader; What is the value in a name? What is the tie to the Land? Where in the world is your home & your people? The answers they collect might vary because their lives are different from one another. Yet, inside, your name might mean that you are the person who writes a review, who reads a story, one who shares a tale or who weaves creation. Our name is a part of who we are. Therefore, one must ask; What harm befalls the giver of false prophecies?

What is interesting about this story is that it makes clear what it is attempting to present. The antagonist visits the narrator under the pretence of connecting to another culture—a culture he claims is his own via the Cherokee relative that may or, may not, be a monarch; who am I to judge but a lonesome Anishinaabe rock? I digress, his pursuits lead him to our narrator & his slow-moving desires overcome the life that the narrator leads.

Do we lose parts of ourselves when we share? Over time, multiple pieces of literature have broached this question. Some people are liable to believe that once something is shared, it is never entirely yours again.

When we speak of ourselves, even the briefest mention or the shallowest article of our character; this gem lives with those to whom we have gifted this morsel. For others, there is no water in the pond or rather, there is a lake big enough for all to dip their toes. Depending on the reader in question, this story might mean something different.

If one were to erase the cultural aspects of this story its essence remains just as moving. However, the cultural reality of the main character’s experience lends itself to a sad tale.

The intentional erasure of Indigenous peoples remains rampant in North America. Policies & practices set to devalue Indigenous peoples are purposefully integrated into everyday life. What happens to the narrator is a dramatized version of what happens every day. Rather, what happens to the narrator is possible because the people around him make it easy for this to happen, just like it was easy in my history; just like it was easy in the history of the people I call kin.

Remaining authentic to the self means a great deal to us personally. Whether we share parts of ourselves because we are eager for people to emerge from ignorance; to know us better, to understand us, to see who we are. The reality remains that the intention of all pursuits of knowledge is not the earnest acquisition of information. One shelters themselves like the stone that is my name; the marooning whistler in the trees; the icy goo that slithers under bedframes; the boneless handshake; the stranger—friend or foe.

This story, though simplistic in nature & style, offers readers the opportunity to place themselves in the virtual world; the way they read stories that best suit their fancy. Maybe this time, the call for diversity or an equal share of meat on the bone will be sliced even & weighed to decimal. Perhaps, readers will appreciate that the essence of who we are is not decided by anyone but ourselves. The path that we walk is the one that nestles smoothly with foliage planted by ancestors with a fondness for a moment they will never see or feel in the skin.

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