Quip from a Fatigued Humanitarian?

  

My thoughts are tired as I hear the news,

Of some ignorant bigot who has some views,

Everyone’s fault, but their own

As they judge, bicker and groan.

A new media has offered them a time slot

To regurgitate irrational thought

To project what they consider perfect conservative views

Sharing articles from Rebel News.

I sit here in complete shock

When I hear, that a new group of neo nazi’s have crawled out from under their rock

Bad Politicians, Social Media and wealthy colonialists have given this a voice

Yet many remain idle! Another overdose! it was their choice!

A Community should be free of racism and hate

But backward ideologies and friends with an opinion we tolerate

Our ancestors fought and died to liberate

Instead as their memory fades – we suffocate.

Attempting to find one more breathe in a world that is easy to forget

That we once had schools that tried to eliminate the threat

A threat of a vibrant culture and peaceful nations

Instead we create divisive relations.

We are told to remember what our great nation did overseas

But we forget the internment camps made specially for the Japanese

We are told to remember how lucky we are

To be born in a country guided by the North Star.

Then why do we still hang onto this hate

Rather tell ourselves that this was all manifest fate

Why do we still encourage policies that divide?

Why do we still elect politicians that still think LGBTQ is a chemical formula for Formaldehyde.

We are told to remember we are a country built on immigrants

But get provoked at the thought of refugee children being protected by their parents

We struggle to allow people to find their space

And stupidly get angry when we can’t see a Muslim woman’s face.

I am tired of listening to your racist rants

I am tired of your call to arms and xenophobic chants

I am not interested in your hateful learned views

I am only interested in positive, kind, optimistic people that have tried to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.

Roy Pogorzelski

The Pogo Bros

The Pogo Bros video released through the POGO channel!!!

Number 42 - Jackie Robinson (American Hero)

      

     In the last year, it has been a difficult task to find new Hollywood flicks that have even attempted to create a "wow factor" and provide a feeling of money well spent.  When I was flying to Switzerland, I got to see Abraham Lincoln, and needless to say, Daniel Day Lewis is a genius in this film.  Abraham Lincoln  is an iconic and inspiring American president, his quotes and belief in change drove him to be assassinated by Southern white folks that gained their wealth off the lands of Native Americans and the tears of African Americans.

     Any threat to these early immigrants upper class status often warrants outrage and hatred directed at some quote/unquote "minority groups" and the original inhabitants of the land.  Currently, a tragic bombing has occurred at the Boston Marathon, and what will be even worse is the future treatment of Muslim individuals in USA.  I can imagine in these communities there is fear, for America needs a scapegoat to justify the death of innocent American citizens.  However, during the years of segregation and draconian law in the states that created separation and pitted "white" people as a superior race, it was fair game on Native or African Americans.

    Looking for inspiration during an uninspiring long Saskatchewan winter, I decided to attend the

Hollywood picture, 42.  Jackie Robinson has always been a hero of mine, a man that encountered the brunt of America's rage against it's African American citizens.  Post World War 2 and the apparent end of Facism did not deter countries from continuing on with Jim Crow law.  Measures were still in place to segregate, intimidate and keep inferior those determined less then the "white elite".

    After my latest Hollywood victory, watching Jennifer Lawrence and Bradley Cooper in Silver Linings Playbook.  The inspiring and intense acting of Cooper & Lawrence, not to mention the veteran savvy of a Robert de Niro, the cinematography and professionalism created a Hollywood masterpiece.  In that case, I had high expectations for 42 and waited for opening weekend to be inspired

and motivated to create change in this world.

    Robinson had a larger then life responsibility, much like Nelson Mandela using Rugby to unite a South African apartheid system; Jackie Robinson was a social experiment by General Manager Branch Rickey of the Brooklyn Dodgers, a testing of the strong racial divisions that existed in America.  Robinson's introduction into the Montreal Royals, a minor league affiliate of the Brooklyn Dodgers, tested the fabric of society.

  In the movie, the viewer gets a Hollywood feeling of a lovely family man (which Robinson was) in an uncomfortable situation.  The racial tensions are lightened by seeing a supportive African American community, a minor league coach that quickly comes around and amazing play that immediately impresses the teammates and wins their affection.  The racial tensions are

encountered when a police officer kicks Robinson out of a game for being black, this transpires into Robinson joking on the street with his wife while another white gentlemen walks up looking irritated.  In an intense moment, the viewer is led to believe that this gentleman is going to cause trouble for Robinson, instead he states that he is rooting for Jackie and that most of the folks are cheering for him.

   This is a recurring theme, as a racially intense moment occurs, we are brought back to humorous light-hearted moments, or the portrayal of Caucasian counterparts that defend, or want Robinson to succeed.  

Signing the Contract

  Robinson is then called up to the big team, the Brooklyn Dodgers, assisted by the assistant coach, he learns how to play first base.  It must be considered that Robinson's failure, or poor play might have set back the push for civil rights, or African/White relations in America.  There is no option for him to fail, his own community and the African American community needed a 1940's hero, one that can be compared to a Harriet Tubman.  Robinson is on this level, the movie does not portray the true hatred he would have encountered from his team mates, umpires, fans, or opposing team mates, but it attempts to capture moments of discrimination in a comedic light hearted method.

  As Robinson is training to be on the Dodgers, his team mates start a petition to have him thrown off the team.  This sparks the true character of Manager Rickey, who informs Lou the head coach in a rather humorous dialogue to tune those boys in.  The manager provides a late night passionate, slightly humorous speech informing the players Jackie is the first of many, so they better start playing, or their jobs will be taken.

  During Robinson's play with the Dodgers, he encounters moments from an opposing coach on the Phillies,

Alan Tudyk as Phillies Coach

who taunts Robinson at every turn.  He uses offensive language, this is a moment when the audience feels tension and we see Jackie break down for the first time in the film.  Not surprising, but this being the first time is impressive, but it allows the viewer for the first time to truly feel Jackie's pain.  However, General Manager Rickey appears to be the only one concerned and offers Jackie a passionate speech.  Robinson then responds just in time to take the field.

   During his next at bat, the opposing coach again starts in on Jackie with racial taunts, this sparks a time out moment and a fellow team mate of Robinson's to have enough.  He walks over to the coach and let's him have it, to where the coach stops the taunting allowing Robinson to hit a lazy off field single.  However, with Jackie's blazing speed and unorthodox base running, he is able to successfully steal second and third base, eventually being hit in by his teammate for the winning run, with Jackie providing a victorious glare at the opposing coach.

Malcolm X

  This Hollywoodized undermining of racial tensions in 42 is expected, Hollywood is in the capatalist world of making enormous profits.  In an independent film their would have been more emphasis on the political ramifications of Jackie Robinson's bravery.  He is iconic in the sense he opened the door for other players of African decent, but he also inspired civil rights movements and important leaders like Martin Luther King Jr,

Martin Luther King Jr

Malcolm X and Rosa Parks.  These leaders would also have an effect on civil rights in Canada, as many Aboriginal leaders would take example from King Jr and Malcolm X.

Rosa Parks

   This Hollywood picture does offer justice at the end by announcing where the players ended up and low an behold the racist coach of the Phillies was fired the year after.  As well, the only player that never came around to accepting Jackie, other then the one pitcher traded to Shittsburgh (oops I mean Pittsburgh) in an ironic twist was also traded to Pittsburgh, which provided a final laugh.

   Another important aspect of the movie is provided when Manager Rickey has a meeting with concerned future Hall of Famer Pee Wee Reece informing the Manager that he can not play at his hometown of Cincinatti because his family will see him play with an African player.  He received a note from a fan stating he was a newly acquired N word lover and this concerned Reece deeply.  However, Rickey in one of many passionate discussions displayed the letters sent to Robinson threatening the life of his family, this act itself inspired Reece in front of his hometown crowd to run up to Jackie and provide a powerful gesture of wrapping his arm around Jackie and in a strong southern accent provides Jackie with hope.

Reece sharing a moment with Jackie in front of his hometown Cincinnati fans

   Another light hearted scene is when one of Jackie's more liberal teammates approaches him sitting outside waiting to use the shower.  Hilarity ensues when at the persuading of his teammate, he inquires if Jackie would shower with him, this slightly awkward exchange becomes more hilarious as awkwardness prevails.  However, Jackie decides it is time to shower with his team, it is a very liberating moment as it portrays the move from discomfort to comfort, but there is a reluctant teammate beside Jackie that immediately ends his shower, portraying that not all teammates had fully accepted Jackie.  This being the same teammate that Jackie almost got into a physical confrontation with when they were refused a hotel in Philadalphia.

    Overall, the movie 42 is an inspiring brief cinematic glimpse into the life of an iconic American figure.  It provides light hearted humor, while attempting to capture the racial tensions.  This is a great family oriented movie, or even a movie to take the significant other too.  It encompasses baseball, friendship, family and the struggle for equality and equity in a racially divided world.  The movie fails in portraying the real racial tensions that were encountered by Jackie Robinson.  In lieu of the audience, the movie provides a lot of white heroes and humor that deflects uncomfortable racial moments.  However, can anything less be expected from Hollywood?  

    Chadwick Boseman plays a great rendition of Jackie Robinson, physically matching the part, he also provides a sense of emotion in the character that allows the audience to sympathize with Mr. 42.  Harrison Ford portrays General Manager Branch Rickey and really puts on a performance, always in character and inspiring.  The supporting cast also had some notables mixed with new comers to the Hollywood scene, but all gelled together well.  I would rank this film a 8 out of 10, mostly for inspiration, acting and creating a positive emotional feeling.  I believe it failed slightly in capturing the immense difficulty that Robinson encountered, unllike Maris who was played by Barry Pepper in *61, in that film one could feel the stress that Maris was encountering while chasing Ruth's home run record (much more conflict) with the same positive ending and light hearted humor.

  "A movie to go see for those needing a positive inspiring pick me up from the real world"

   Roy Pogorzelski

Idle No More 2012 (The Pogo Perspective)

It has been awhile since I turned to the blog to express my opinions.  However, arriving back from Europe in December to start teaching at the First Nations University, I realized I came at a very important political time for Indigenous Canadians and Concerned Canadians (I say concerned because unfortunately Canada is full of people that take no interest in political movements, but are the to first to air their ignorant opinions).

The Canadian government (or Harper's government as he would rather it be referred to) decided to pass undemocratically through parliament an omnibus Bill C-45.  This bill passed through so quickly it would make kidney stone patients jealous.  The idea behind the bill is that it eliminates the protection of 2.5 million lakes and rivers, it also eliminates the environmental protection from unscrupulous development companies that enjoy filling our waterways with nuclear waste.

Protecting our Water should be important to ALL CANADIANS!!

This has also become a violation of the rights for First Nations people entrenched in treaties that were signed on a nation to nation basis on mutual trust and sharing of this land.  Another important element is that the treaties only covered 6 inches under the ground, anything deeper would have to be re-negotiated and make further arrangements for those natural resources.

The Harper government has also declared to make amendments to the Indian Act that would open up lands to privatization, corporate development and national capitalism.  He is also interested in a new method in which we negotiate modern treaties, which would endure the same capitalist effect.

Arriving back, I heard of a Chief named Theresa Spence from the community of Attawapiskat who would endure a hunger strike, even willing to die in order to get a meeting with Prime Minister Stephen Harper and Governor General David Lloyd Johnston to discuss Bill C-45 and the current colonial relationship between Stephen Harper and Aboriginal people in Canada.

Idle No More (Chief Spence)

A movement organized by 4 strong Indigenous women (Idle No More, 2012) sprung into action sweeping through the nation and capturing the attention of not only Canadians, but the entire world.  A movement resembling the strong political organizing of the 1970's when Trudeau's Liberal government tried to pass the White Paper of 1969 (an Act to assimilate First Nations treaties, reserve lands and culture into the mainstream).

Taiaiake Alfred stated in his book "Peace, Power and Righteousness" that it would be unrealistic in the present to see Canada create another Bill that would undermine Aboriginal and Treaty Rights.  However, a man that made a Residential School apology to all those that survived a shameful part of Canadian History (Harper's minority government) is now attempting to develop our resources to the highest bidder, so that Canada can grow into a capitalist, every man for them self society.

Harper at Residential School apology (June 11, 2008)

Harper getting his face painted on the Blood Reserve as a show of mutual respect!

This runs deeper then just the neglect for Aboriginal and Treaty rights, Bill C-45 deliberately tells all Canadians that the current administration is willing to destroy the environment, the drinking water and the beauty of Canada without consulting, being accountable or caring about the voices of all Canadians.

When I am travelling and representing proudly overseas my identity as a Canadian, I am informed by many new friends that they love Canada's nature and the beauty of the environment.  Much like the Scandinavian countries with amazing nature, especially Norway and governments that better represent a functioning democracy bound on protecting their lands for future generations; most Canadians stand "Idle", scratch their heads and start pointing fingers at the First Nations people (often time in generalizations).  First Nations people are referred to this because of their diversity as nations, as their eco-systems change from the Northwest Coast to the Eastern Woodlands, the political structures, needs of the community and traditions are different.

However, instead of some Canadians understanding what our capitalist conservative government (that has ran a deficit into the billions over the last 6 years) envisions for this great country; they start to point fingers at First Nations leadership and start attacking the personal finances of Chief Theresa Spence.

In my opinion, Chief Spence is a symbolic figure of this grassroots movement, she is an individual that put herself forward to gather the attention of the international community.  Whether or not people believe she is on a real hunger strike, her symbolism is gathering responses to the issues of environment, nation to nation relationships and treaties.  Indigenous people have always been intricately connected to Mother Earth and have emerged as leaders against capitalism, corporate greed and consumerism to ensure all Canadians understand what exactly is at stake.

It is easy for ignorant people to make this about race, ignoring the concept of "national solidarity".  However, my people the Metis fought hard to protect Canada, as they brought Manitoba into confederation (against a Prime Minister that wasn't even Canadian, but Scottish).  They fought gallantly for their rights in 1885 as Canadians against a paramilitary police force (NWMP) made up of  "foreigners" that had no connection to this land.

John A Macdonald (Born in Glascow Scotland)

However, our people got deemed terrorists, rebels and traitors and our patriotic Canadian born leader (was hung by a Scottish Prime Minister).  I am a patriotic Metis Canadian that embraces the idea of "functioning democracy", but what is happening at the moment is not a country based on equal, or equitable rights, it is a conservative country based on division, generalizations and capitalist greed.

Canadian Patriot Louis Riel (Born in St.Boniface, CANADA)

It is easy for certain Canadians to point the finger and generalize Indigenous leadership, it is easy to start bashing Chief Therese Spence, it is easy to express your words in an anger and hate filled way, but if you decide to speak against the movement, at least have the courtesy to be informed, aware and open-minded.  That is why I am "Idle No More", I am encouraged to see the youth rise up with a modern day grassroots movement to bring all Canadians together to say in a democratic way to our government "it is time to start governing for Canadians (all Canadians) and not just the 1-2% that will benefit from corporate greed in the development of our natural resources".

I am proud of my First Nations brothers and sisters for standing up for the rights of all Canadians, now it is time for all Canadians to fight with us to protect what we love most about Canada (the nature).

Roy Pogorzelski

SEVEN OAKS!!

Written By: Roy Pogorzelski

Date: November 29, 2011

Title: Seven Oaks!!

                                                            Cuthbert Grant

This is a short story about the first organized Metis leader Cuthbert Grant, during the days of the fur trade wars.  The Metis predominantely worked for the Northwest Company and competed against the Hudson Bay Company for complete monopoly over the fur trade in Canada.  I have submitted this for a cmpetition with Glimmer Press.  Hoping it does well, your comments and feedback would be much appreciated.  Most of this was worked on at the Emerging Writers Residency at the Banff Centre, and eventually will be turned into a book.  Enjoy!!!

SEVEN OAKS!!

JUNE 19, 1816

Cuthbert Grant gazed sharply across the lush green grove, taking notice of the swaying branches of the Oak trees.  The whirling wind swooshed by his ears, drowning out distractions.  Perched a top his trusted steed, he identified the ant like bodies in the distance, as those of the rival fur trading company.

Engaging his thoughts, he pondered; why would this birdbrain, Semple, decide to block the passage way?  Burning lava was building in the pit of his stomach, melting through his ribs, blazing the lining of his interior. There was a need for the furs to be delivered, later this evening to the fort. 

Wondering how to relieve this awful gut wrenching hatred for Governor Semple, he adjusted his sash, wrapped tightly around his waist, as if loosening it was the answer to counselling out this feeling.  Slightly turning his head, he scoured the faces of his most trusted men.

He fixated his eyes on Joseph Aubichon, a short, stocky, simple, grungy, but strong as a mule trader.  Envisioning Joseph in an exchange with Semple, was like sending whisky to an alcoholic, he would be consumed in a matter of seconds.

Beside Joseph, was Cyprien Morin, a comedian, inherent with the gift of gab, a real ladies man, always the life of the party, but their was one problem; he had an itchy trigger finger, both in actuality and metaphorically.  A simple dumfounded glare, a comment under the breath, this man would spiral into a fit of rage compared to that of Poseidon angrily tossing a ship and eventually swallowing it at sea.

Ahhh, Albert Gernault, an intelligent, well spoken, respected gentleman, who strongly conceived that laughter was the supreme medicine for avoiding expressing other emotions.  One problem, Gernault loathed Governor Semple, being chased, followed, scared by these British fur trading men.  Grant knew, if the opportunity arose, Gernault would grasp at the chance to terminate him.

Grant grew increasingly frustrated as he surveyed his patriots, cupping the bone of his chin, with a thoughtful stroke; he immediately waved off the idea of sending “Big Jean”.  Jean Baptistse Aubichon, brother of Joseph, was an enormous man-beast in stature, resembling a mythical Centaur, with powerful legs, broad shoulders and a silent, yet confrontational demeanour.  When Jean decided it was a whisky night, seats immediately opened up at the local watering hole.

Grant required an individual with a calm disposition, who was able to deliver a peaceful message, without sparking conflict.  Not wanting to damage the furs, lose the furs, or worse, one of his men’s lives. 

AH HUH, directing his attention at the youngest man in their party, Francois Bouvier.  He was an eighteen year old, charismatic, charming, bi-lingual and well groomed.  His calming attitude; quite cultivated, but on rare occasion his immaturity shone through like a sun fighting the clouds to appear noticeable.  Francois prompted memories of Grant as a young man.

Grants throat tightened as a shrill sound quivered his tonsils, as he strained the soreness from his eyes, challenging the wind, “FRANCOIS”.

Francois perked up on his horse, the familiarity of this voice, baffled, curious; he sat their eyeballing Grant like a perplexed child that had just been unwillingly selected by their teacher to answer a question.

Grant, summoned Francois, with a hand gesture to advance closer, so that he did not have to continue to strain his vocal muscles. 

Francois apprehensively approached, wondering why Grant was interested in speaking with him.

“Come here François”, Grant fanned his hand faster, attempting to motivate a quicker pace. 

“Yes, Mister Grant?”, he said inquisitively.

“I need you to negotiate with Governor Semple a safe passage through Seven Oaks” a task, Grant was knocking on wood, would create an opportunity, not a problem.

“What should I say?” eyes wide, eyebrows lifted, sweat starting to bead just under his hairline, startled by this request.

“To report that we have commercial property from the Northwest Company and we need his men to withdraw and allow us to pass peacefully”, Grant emphasizing that peace rather then fight was the objective.

Grant observed Francois closely, assuming he grasped the expectations of this request.  Hoping, wishing, waiting for a response; finally Francois with a hesitant nod of his head, took a relaxing breath and understood the responsibility that had been bestowed upon him. 

Grant still a bit leery gave a short nod. 

Francois’, veins visible, as he gripped the reigns, commanded his horse to turn his head and leaving a cloud of dust, raced off towards Semple.

Semple, slumped atop his horse, distracted by the nervous chit chat of the settlers, “GOVERNOR SEMPLE!!” shook the inside of his right ear drum, his neck crackled as he swung to the direction of the sound. 

“WHAT!” annoyingly, he hollered at the volunteer as his voice sliced through the wind. 

“Sir, there is a rider approaching”, the volunteer swung his arm; pointing in the direction from which Francois was advancing.

He squinted through the wind to see a man on horseback approaching at a quick speed, the shadow moving faster then the actual figure.  The man came to a halt twenty yards from where Semple and his men were positioned.

Semple, straining his eyes, recognized this young man.  He was that young trouble maker that enjoyed his whisky, and in some occasions would harass the Scottish settlers in the area.  Semple snapped the reigns, kicking his horse in the side, sped off to meet face to face with this young delinquent. 

Francois’ chest inflated as he took a deep nervous breath, swallowing the cool air and then re-releasing it to the wind.  Semple, overjoyed that Grant would choose a youngster, who could barely grow facial hair, approached alone with his chest puffed high, his shoulders elevated forward and a very stern and unforgiving authoritative look to his face.

“What is it that you want” quite irritated, while staring Francois in the face.

Francois responded “Mister Grant wants to know, what the purpose of blocking us from our destination is?  We would like to peacefully pass, without any confrontation”.

Semple furrowed his brow in a thought provoking way, as he studied this request from the young man “What is your business, passing the Fort” he inquired.

Francois attempting to hide his nervousness remarked with a building poise, “we have commercial property from the Northwest Company that needs to be delivered to the Northwest trading Fort by tonight”.

Semple laughed so hard, he almost fell off of his horse.  He retorted “over my dead body, I have the right mind to arrest you in front of your half-breed friends”.

Meanwhile, Grant fumbled in his pocket, searched for his eye scope and slowly transferred it to his right eye and with his right hand; he pulled on the scope to define his field of focus.  He observed through his enhanced field of vision, Semple and Francois engaging in discussion. 

The lava in his gut started to boil again, but was mixed with a queasy nervous feeling, anticipating that the stubborn Semple, was not going to make things easy on Francois.  

The bubbling feeling of lava in his stomach was immediately halted when his adrenaline froze the insides of his body and he spotted from the distance, Semple clutch the arm of Francois. 

Grant lowered his scope and sped off, in record breaking time towards the skirmish, his men alarmed, shocked and excited, followed at a quick pace behind their leader.

Francois continued to attempt to wiggle his arm free from the firm grasp of Semple.  The Hudson Bay Company Governor was always willing to exert his self-induced authority on any mixed blood supporters of the French trade.  Detecting the riders approaching, red sashes flapping in the wind, a blue flag accompanying the traders, led by Grant; Semple was interested in taking this opportunity to crush these traders and have them all arrested for trespassing.

Semple without turning his head brought his hand up and with his index finger, moved it in one fluid motion summoning the settlers, volunteers and his traders to approach the inevitable standoff. 

Francois, his face a disappointed red colour, responded with rage and a new found assurance, “with what authority Semple, you are not the rule of this land, this here is God’s land, you are simply a trespasser, besides with an army like that, you’re either a brave man or a very stupid man”.

Semple observed the sudden change of emotion in the young man and realized he had triggered some sort of deep anger, but he also attributed this to the forming semi-circle that accompanied Grant, surrounding Bouvier.

This did not alarm Semple, being Governor of the Red River did not come at an easy price.  He had been face to face with Indians, he had dealt with Half-Breeds for many years and had survived on this land for decades, he new his authority and was not afraid to implement his will, even if it meant endangering the lives of the men that had raced out to form a straight military line behind him.

Semple still having a handful of arm, tugged Francois closer “You are under arrest by the order of the Hudson Bay Company”, he affirmed. 

Bouvier hastily ripped his arm away, almost jerking Semple off his horse.  Guns were cocked, pointing at one another, daring, wondering, who would succumb to the pressure and fire the first shot. 

Grant gawked at Semple, who was cockily smirking at him, daring him to fight.  Just at that moment, a young settler, anxious and nervous, accidentally with a deafening sound fired his weapon.  This created an orchestra of bangs, as shot after shot rang out of their guns, only hesitating a moment to reload. 

Grant’s heart punched, beat and pounded the inside of his chest.  Bang, the kick back of the gun sent a vibrating jolt of electricity through his arms.  Bang, with every shot, a silent calmness resonated, his chest deflated, his heart slowed as if he was envisioning shapes in the clouds.  Feeling sedated, the battle in slow motion, his peripherals distracted by the circus of cluttered bodies surrounding him.  CRACK, his body went limp, as the force of the blow turned his frame, crackling ribs lead into weightlessness, as gravity floated his body in slow motion towards a bed of green.

Face down, groggy; Grant clenched a handful of grass with his right hand.  His eyelids half open, he examined this insignificant piece of grass and acknowledged the land he protected intimately.  Dazed, confused, believing this must be a nightmare.  A large rock pinned his stomach to the ground as he turned his head slightly, blood trickled off his forehead bypassing his eye.  He noticed a shadowy figure standing over him, breathing deeply, in his blackness this man resembled death. 

With one last inch of energy, Grant`s shoulder blade crackled as he turned his head, to catch a glimpse of the man who would forever be known in history books as the `BUTCHER OF GRANT`.  Meeting the old man`s eye, memories of his time in Red River, glimpsed through his mind, flashing scenes from his life.

As Grant had finally succumbed to the fierce blow he had received, a calming darkness resonated through his body, creating lightness in weight, waiting for the last breath to escape his body. 

BANG!!  Grant clenched, holding tighter the grass that provided much needed support.  Continued darkness, no pain vibrated through his body, his own assumptions of the discomfort of death shattered.  Continuing to lay there, the silence of a deafened ear evident, Grant managed to send a message to his brain to open his eyes.

Groggy, light entering his retinas, pain pounded the inside of his forehead like it was being used as a drum in a parade.  With his hands underneath his chest, he lifted with all the strength his biceps could muster.  Feeling a tight grab under both armpits, he was suddenly flung like a stuffed doll to a standing position, but resting his arms around the shoulders of two large burly pillars.

With squinted eyes, still adjusting to the brightness, he saw one of his men; sash in one hand, blue flag rippling in the wind in the other with arms outstretched.  Unsure, of what was happening, Grant slightly turning his head, felt the blood flow increase to his wobbly legs and requested his supports set him on the ground.

Grant scoured the men’s bodies that rested in the deep green grass.  His eyes fixated on the waist of the men, hoping not to see a tightly tied sash associated with death.  Bodies littered the ground, as Grant untied his sash, relieving pressure on his stomach and touched it to the bloody spot of his forehead.  Still searching the men, he noticed the furs were all gathered, what was salvaged and piled together.

The wind whipping his eyes, Grant slowly moved towards the isolated middle ground, where, what would be forever known in the history books as the “Battle of Seven Oaks” began.  Stumbling, he noticed two bodies laying across form one another, both had plummeted off their horses after taking a lead ball.

Shockingly, Grant recognized one of the bodies as Governor Semple’s, curled up, motionless, lifeless, in this moment he was no longer an enemy, but a fallen soldier.  Grant stood over Semple’s body; this tyrant of the Metis, now ancient history, he new that this battle would not go unnoticed.

Turning slowly, with a relieved feeling of a Mother who just realized all her children were safe, captured a disturbing image.  Stumbling, he knelt down beside a limp body, the redness of the sash, loosened off his waist, noticeable.

Grant began furiously shaking the shoulder of the body, hoping, preying to solicit a response.  Nothing, the soul had left this body and ventured to another world.  Reluctant to turn the body, as he swivelled his head to the men starting to gather around him, hoping to catch a glimpse and take attendance of who was still breathing.

Turning his attention back to the body, he slowly turned the shoulder as the body rolled to reveal, what Grant feared, it was the face of Francois Bouvier.  A tear building in the corner of his eye, fell and descended down his cheek at a quickened pace, straight to the jaw, held there for a moment and then continued it’s journey, as it blended in with the sleeve of Grant’s coat.

His brigade of sharp shooting Métis snipers, loyal, obedient, strong, knew they had gained a rather important victory, but this single moment, single battle, single hour, single day, single summer would resonate in Grant’s memory for the rest of his life. 

The Story of My Step-Grandpa's Destroyed Liver

The Story of My Step-Grandpa’s Destroyed Liver

PICTURE: Attached to story the rope, this is Nathan's second guest blog!!

Bio: Nathan Adler is a writer and artist who works in many different mediums, including video, film, drawing & painting, as well as glass and installation.  Nathan was the first place winner of the 2010 Aboriginal Writing Challenge http://www.our-story.ca/nathan-adler.html, he has had his writing published in Redwire magazine, Canada’s History magazine, and as a part of the Odemin Giizis Festival.  He is currently working as a glass artist, and is a member of Lac Des Mille Lacs First Nation.

             

            Every year when October 31^st rolls around, I always think of my step-grandpa Frank, because October 31^st, Halloween, was his birthday.  He passed away several years ago.  When I was a teenager, we would visit our grandmother and our step-grandfather in their apartment in Guelph, Ontario.  My siblings and I never called our step-grandpa “grandpa”, we just called him by his first name: Frank.

            And Frank.  Well.  He liked to drink.  Or at least, he used to.  His liver gave out, and then he couldn’t drink at all without getting violently sick.  Drinking just didn’t feel good to him anymore.

            The doctor told him, he was about to get cirrhosis of the liver, if he didn’t quit drinking, and the organ wouldn’t be able to recover.  He was at the point of no return.  The organ could recover to a certain extent, but only if he quit drinking.  If he didn’t quit, he’d get Cirrhosis.  He had to give up beer and alcohol or face the prospect of Cirrhosis and ultimately death, which isn’t much of a choice at all.

            My brothers and I were not yet nineteen yeas old, which is the drinking age in Ontario.  Not that we didn’t drink already.  We’d been to our fair share of house parties, drunken field parties, or just hanging out drinking a few beers on a Friday night.  Someone’s older brother or sister would always buy us beer.     

            So it wasn’t all that strange that Frank would always offer us a Beer.  Just because he couldn’t drink without getting violently sick, didn’t mean that he didn’t still yearn for a drink.  He always kept the fridge well stocked with beer though he never drank it himself.  Not anymore.  It was only a short distance from his favorite chair in front of the T.V. in the living room to the fridge in the kitchen. 

            Perfectly chilled.  Ice cold.  Beer. 

            So every time we’d visit, he’d reach into the fridge and hand us a beer.  It could be 11:00 AM on a Sunday morning, we could already be hung-over from the night before, we could be sick; but it didn’t matter.  He’d hand us that perfectly chilled, ice cold, beer with a look of thirsty expectation on his face.

            Thirsty anticipation.  The anticipation of a dry alcoholic tongue, that hadn’t tasted a drop in years.  The anticipation of vicarious satiation, vicarious sensation and the long-missed absence of blessed intoxication; it was impossible to refuse.  It was usually Molson, Miller, or Labatt 50.  Nothing fancy or imported.  Then he’d watch as we cracked the puckered metal seal, the mist rising out of the brown glass like early morning fog.  He’d watch as we raised the beer bottles to our lips, and took that first swig, Adam’s apple bobbing, the quiet shook shook sound, as we swallowed, and the air pressure tightened with the transfer of cold beer and the surrounding air re-filling the previously occupied vacuum.  A big smile plastered on his face as he watched with rapt attention, and re-lived the experience he had once enjoyed. 

            My grandparents kept the heat in their apartment cranked, so we usually did get thirsty. 

            Frank had a seven-inch scar on his abdomen where he’d stabbed himself with a knife attempting to commit suicide.  I don’t know whether it’s easier to stab yourself in the stomach than it is to stab yourself in the heart, but I imagine the grinding of metal on bone as you tried to force the blade past your rib-cage, would be a lot more difficult than simply stabbing yourself in the soft fleshy pulp of your stomach.  Unfortunately, or luckily, depending on the way you looked at it, stabbing yourself in the stomach isn’t as lethal as stabbing yourself in the heart.  Although I don’t recommend trying it. 

            I guess those shakes of withdrawal as your coming down from a lifetime of the over-drinking, must be pretty rough.  Maybe when you get over wanting to kill yourself, it might be a good idea to keep a stockpile of beer in your fridge, just in case your grandkids come by to visit, and you can enjoy a nice, ice cold, perfectly chilled beer.  Vicariously.  I’m sure that if they have a working liver to spare, they won’t mind lending you theirs.

            Even if it is 11:00 AM on a Sunday morning.

            Let that be a warning to those of you who like to drink, a little bit too much.  If you really enjoy drinking, then it might be a good idea to practice moderation, or your liver could give out, you’ll have to face the prospect of Cirrhosis and death, and then where will you be?  Not drinking anything at all, that’s where. 

            And that would suck, big-time!