Indigenous arts supplement – This Magazine

Rework

Erica Lenti — Tue, 04 Sep 2018 13:33:35 +0000

I am reworking my reality.

How does a tranny
coexist
   with lust,
      being told of an
   “unattainable” touch
even with the saliva of a man
   dripping off of my chest
  how he bites at
my soft parts
      and kissed me
   rigid.

I think this man
   could love me,
  fuck me
      outside of glory holes
      a bathroom stall
I think he could
bring glory
   to all the empty holes
      in me
but still I’m stalling.
      Stutter.
   M a y b e
      I could love him too.
M a y b e
   j u s t,
      m a y b e

My reality
is reworking me.

This piece is part of a collection of works by trans and queer Indigenous writers and artists. Explore the rest of the feature:

Prose by Kai Minosh Pyle ● Interview with Lindsay Nixon ● Visual art by Fallon Simard ● Interview with Ziibiwan Rivers ● Prose by Jaye Simpson

this woman, nokum

Erica Lenti — Tue, 04 Sep 2018 13:32:51 +0000

how do i explain my queerness to the gatekeeper of my blood line when she flushed hers out with communion wine and holy water?

how do i explain my ever-shifting body to the woman who prayed for damnation for me, rather than my absolution? my grandmother who held me at birth, has prayed for my end more than my success, she’d done this many times over, begging God that we’d be better off dead, burying two spirit cousins after two spirit cousin- hanging their queer bodies like a slaughtered coyote on

a post as to say “do not come around here no more”.

this woman. does not see the two spirit as hallowed or sacred,
but sees me as crawling out of the mud like a demon to bring forth the end of the world like the four headed beast of Revelations.

this woman. cut down the family tree to build the church where our funerals would be.
this woman. salted the fields where we were meant to grow.
this woman. has never loved a day in her life.

this woman. begged for residential school, etched colonization into her bones, cracked into marrow to write passages out of the bible in her right hand in white blood cell matter.

this woman. broke the bible on my mother’s back, bruised & branded old testament into the flesh of my mother, tried to exorcise intergenerational trauma as if it was some demon.

but holy water does not wine make; yet the gatekeeper of my bloodline flushed hers with communion wine and holy water.

this woman. buried my mother in the colonizer’s church, cut my hair the night before and told me to say my prayers or I’d end up in hell with my mother. told me to be a “good indian, and not cry”.

i would rather outlive her now than explain my queerness, knowing how she’d cast me out, strike my back raw, rip my claim from my mother tongue, flay me in front of the land that birthed our people.

this woman. cut down the family tree to build the church where our funerals would be.
this woman. would rather an empty church and a graveyard full of her children than actually know who we were

This piece is part of a collection of works by trans and queer Indigenous writers and artists. Explore the rest of the feature:

Prose by Kai Minosh Pyle ● Interview with Lindsay Nixon ● Visual art by Fallon Simard ● Interview with Ziibiwan Rivers ● Poetry by Arielle Twist

Prose

Erica Lenti — Tue, 04 Sep 2018 13:32:21 +0000

THE MYTH OF THE ATOM

i am learning not to be alone. kinship is a practice: it is performed through repeated actions. is it queer to be alone? is not the same question as, is being queer lonely? but i might be forgiven for not knowing the difference. my language has no word for queer; in a world divided into relative and stranger, inawemaagan and meyaagizid, i am strange kin. estranged kin.

webs are for spiders, electric veins, and musty corners of family trees. where did anishinaabe people learn the first straight line? there is no aadizookaan that tells the origin of hate but some of my aunties have made it their spirit guide anyway.

ruth landes met ojibwe lesbians and never knew it. according to the laws of anthropology, other-than-human beings can be kin, but we are still waiting for an answer on transsexuals, ozaawindib be damned. i should have been born with wings if i wanted to be respected, but translation can’t save me now. even if i still want to believe it could.

only the sick ask for new names, and a gender dysphoria diagnosis doesn’t count. i am afraid of silence and sticks and the corners of women’s eyes, so i say nothing and live with it. wishing my wings would grow in soon, black as the night. wondering when my clan will come to save me. knowing only that the ojibwe word for salvation means love, love, love.

ON LYNXES AND WOLVES

duality is binary with an ndn heart. between two spirits i’m caught like nanabush between two trees, watching wolves eat what’s meant for me while i go hungry. i was given to the upper world at birth but the bottom of the lake beckons and i am not very good at resisting. i sew loon colors on my skirts as though i am not destined to meet the water only in predatory dives, as though i’m not actually terrified of what lies beneath those shining surfaces. i’ve memorized all the words for waves in the ojibwe people’s dictionary and it has brought me no closer to wetting my toes. plus, half the time i’m not even sure i want to wear the skirt.

what do you do when you’re eternally the chrysalis. when you’re in a world that thinks cat is the opposite of dog and you are some kind of possibly flightless bird. when you’re surrounded by people who think decolonizing means being lynxes and wolves instead and you just want to blow up the whole damn thing but you can’t say that out loud because then you’re some kind of colonized hackjob who’s out to destroy your own traditions. i’ve been wondering.

i’ve stopped saying the word “traditional” because i no longer know what it means and maybe never did. you should, too.

ABECEDARIUM

i became an adult the day i discovered that alphabets lie. catching wind in their inky sails, they hide the mobile flesh of contracting lungs that makes breath sacred. for many years i read silently, stressed syllables in disarray. the lie inside of me.

these days i breathe too shallow. chest constricted, air moving past teeth, gumbs, palate, brushing larynx against the grain like history. this is the price we pay for ourselves: constructing voice boxes out of cigarette smoke and gravel.

the movement of air from places of high to low pressure is a migration story, the chronicle of breath one of expulsion. i study birds in order to learn how to cope with this knowledge. their songs, which even alphabets cannot apprehend, are the trail markers that teach me the meaning of exile.

she is a single puff locked up in three marks we call letters while we pretend they exist in the same realm as the gods of the four winds. pronouns are not inherently divine but we worship them all the same; they are needy little fuckers so we feed them often, a human sacrifice outlawed by no government.

i’ve learned women’s songs and men’s songs and water songs and tobacco songs and still i have not found a voice made of something other than sorrow. i’ve made ribbon skirts and ribbon shirts and discovered the ungendered truth of a well-sewn moccasin. these days i find myself wondering, when i’m asked my name at the end of the world, will the answer stick in my throat or will i want to pronounce it after all. will my clan be enough to keep my thunderer’s wings beating through all those years.

lift is holy and eagles know it. spirals are just circles that have learned the way out. up. i’m spinning on my heels right now but one day i’ll break the cycle and it’s gonna be glorious. like lungs expanding into empty space. like phonemes unlocked from dusty scripts. and we’ll finally find out if reversing a lie is how you know the truth.

This piece is part of a collection of works by trans and queer Indigenous writers and artists. Explore the rest of the feature:

Interview with Lindsay Nixon ● Visual art by Fallon Simard ● Interview with Ziibiwan Rivers ● Prose by Jaye Simpson ● Poetry by Arielle Twist

Interview: Ziibiwan Rivers

Erica Lenti — Tue, 04 Sep 2018 13:31:58 +0000

Photo courtesy of Ziibiwan Rivers.

Genre hopping from ambient experimental electronics to hip hop, trip hop, R&B, and more, Ziibiwan Rivers is an electronic musician with a no-holds-barred approach to production. Beautiful and tension-filled soundscapes follow dense, calm, trap-inspired epics where land, sky, and deep sea meet. Ziibiwan is Anishinaabe from Wiikwemkoong, based in Tkaronto.

When I first heard Ziibiwan Rivers’s music, I knew immediately that they had a rare and profound talent. Their remix of Leanne Simpson’s Under Your Always Light remains one of my favourite tracks of all time. I’ve also been privileged to hear some of their new musical work and I’m confident that they have a long and critically rich musical career ahead of them. I wanted to talk with them about their experiences in music as a Queer/Trans/Two- Spirited (2S) NDN person because I think their work in music is an important part of the broader visibility and vibrancy of Queer/Trans/2S artistic work in the world. — GWEN BENAWAY

GWEN BENAWAY: What’s the relationship between your music and your experience of being an Queer/Trans/2S NDN person?

ZIIBIWAN RIVERS: I can’t say that my “released music” has been really considerate of my gender identity as much as I wished it was. I was just trying to survive in those moments but my previous release wasn’t embellished around gender or sexuality. After the release, I was kind of brought into this toxic masculine-dominated industry that I was quite oblivious about. I learned quickly that my acceptance of LGBTQ2S culture, that was nourished by my mother, wasn’t as welcomed by the general music community.

GWEN: Building on that idea about the toxic masculinity of the music industry, what was your experience like being a Queer/ Trans 2S NDN musical artist in a traditionally male-dominated music industry?

ZIIBIWAN: It’s soul sucking and incredibly toxic to the spirit; parts of my being dismount completely in this field. I’ve been backstage with “bros” who grossly display their insecurities with their masculinity by belittling anyone who is less manly than them. It’s really disappointing that the only positive experiences I’ve had in this field are from kwe (Indigenous women) who just look at you like a being that deserves respect. I don’t feel analyzed and observed by the fragile male gaze.

GWEN: You bring up the importance of working with kwe. Who do you see as your Queer/Trans/2S kin in the world? What does Queer/Trans/2S kinship look like?

ZIIBIWAN: There are many people out there who I admire deeply and support me. I’ve been blessed by beautiful neechies reaching out and seeing me for who I am and providing me spaces to express myself. We are all carrying intergenerational trauma and ongoing attacks on our bodies and identities. For that reason, kinship with Queer/Trans/2S neechies has to be forgiving, compassionate, powerful, and community-based. We are all unfolding and actively working against a majority who project problematic views on us and who we should be. The conversations that take place within our community are frighteningly different from the conversations that take place by “bros” and for that reason, we need love, attention, leniency, and care.

GWEN: I really agree with everything you just said. I think it’s so important that we build care into our relations with each other. With that in mind, this is my favourite question to ask other Indigenous folks because it never gets asked by non-ndn folks (I’m assuming because they don’t care about our future or our optimism): What are you hopeful about in your life right now?

ZIIBIWAN: I’m excited for a fresh start and power to nourish our community in any way possible, within my emotional capacity. I just left a record label that was littered with abusive allegations and behaviours toward talented Queer/kwe. It has really corroded my spirit to be stagnant and complacent with people who never addressed or proceeded with genuine action to confront the issue. I want to do everything I can to lift and empower Queer/Trans/2s/ kwe artists.

This piece is part of a collection of works by trans and queer Indigenous writers and artists. Explore the rest of the feature:

Prose by Kai Minosh Pyle ● Interview with Lindsay Nixon ● Visual art by Fallon Simard ● Prose by Jaye Simpson ● Poetry by Arielle Twist

End Violence Against Trans Women

Erica Lenti — Tue, 04 Sep 2018 13:31:26 +0000

This piece is part of a collection of works by trans and queer Indigenous writers and artists. Explore the rest of the feature:

Prose by Kai Minosh Pyle ● Interview with Lindsay Nixon ● Interview with Ziibiwan Rivers ● Prose by Jaye Simpson ● Poetry by Arielle Twist

Interview: Lindsay Nixon

Erica Lenti — Tue, 04 Sep 2018 13:30:19 +0000

Photo courtesy of Concordia University.

Lindsay Nixon is a Cree-Métis-Saulteaux curator, award- nominated editor, award-nominated writer, and McGill Art History PhD student. They currently hold the position of editor-at-large for Canadian Art. Nixon has previously edited mâmawi-âcimowak, an independent art, art criticism, and literature journal, and their writing has appeared in Malahat Review, Room, GUTS, Mice, esse, the Inuit Art Quarterly, Teen Vogue, and other publications. Their forthcoming memoir, nîtisânak, is to be released in September 2018 through Metonymy Press. Born and raised in the prairies, Lindsay currently lives Tio’tia:ke/Mooniyaang—unceded Haudenosaunee and Anishinabe territories (Montreal).

Lindsay sat down with guest editor Gwen Benaway to chat.

GWEN BENAWAY: You write and talk about the intersections of NDN Queer Trans kinship and how those forms of kinship are fraught with ethical complexities but also life-giving systems of defence against a murderous white cisgender/heterosexual (cishet) world. What do you see in your NDN Trans and Queer kinship that is life giving?

LINDSAY NIXON: Within my queer and trans kinship networks, we’ve created constellations of support in the cities we ran to, away from cis- and hetero-normative violence and relations. Some might call this a trauma bond, but I want to push up against that a bit. All of my Queer and Trans NDN friends are traumatized. Aren’t we worthy of love, of kinships bonds, regardless of the quality of care we can give or receive?

So much of being a Queer and/or Trans Indigenous person is helping one another stay alive day to day, and providing material and emotional support to one another. There’s also something about Queer and Trans Indigenous communities that is grounding of relation knowledges. For example, the spaces wherein I am having conversations around boundaries and accountability—
a loaded term I know—are Queer and Trans spaces, not often Indigenous spaces. Perhaps instead of accountability, I can just acknowledge the radical care I see embodied in queer and trans Indigenous ethics. This is not to be confused with superficial conceptions of niceness, any performative values, at that.
I mean the open, honest, and clear communication I see flowing throughout Indigenous Queer and Trans communities. It’s knowing that we are all going to fuck up and be messy, but committing to helping one another heal, and making work that heals that hurt.

GWEN: Is there an NDN Queer Trans philosophy to living? Or a commonality to our lives? I’ve heard you and [scholar and literary writer] Billy-Ray Belcourt discuss how being NDN and Queer/Trans is often rooted in a mythical past or impossible in the imagined future. I’m wondering: What are the connections you see in our NDN Trans and Queer bodies that reflect ancestral ties and imagine a future that are linked through Trans and Queer NDN realities? Or it is simply that we’re here as NDN Trans and Queer folks?

LINDSAY: My intent definitely isn’t to homogenize the Queer/ Trans, Queer-Trans Indigenous experience. In my work, I’m really careful not to reference a homogenized vision of “Two-Spirit
(2S)” that evoked figures like Whe’wa with voyeuristic and anthropological fascination. But I often think about all the activism that is held within Queer and/or Trans Indigenous communities, and the ethical ways of loving we speak about and make work centring on.

I used to feel dejected because of Indigenous governance. I didn’t see myself, or the work of other Queer and Trans thinkers, makers, and doers, in Indigenous governance departments, discussions, and projects. It’s hard not to feel like you are lifeless when even your own community doesn’t witness your spirit. Billy-Ray Belcourt is currently undertaking a survey of Indigenous/ Native studies departments internationally, looking into how many departments have Queer and/or Trans theorists within them. While his findings haven’t been made public yet, I think they will show that institutional Indigenous thought considers Queer and Trans intervention outside of itself or, at best, fringe.

I’ve received pushback from within Indigenous thought when I point to Queer/Trans erasure. I’ve been told that, because there were Queer and Trans peoples in previous generations of institutional Indigenous thought, Queer/Trans erasure in Indigenous thought has been overstated. Further, that I’m erasing the folks who were there fighting for gender and sexuality issues within Indigenous community for decades. I don’t agree.

First, there’s a great deal of gaslighting inherent in the argument that Queer/Trans folks are overstating their erasure, pushing out, and experiencing harm within larger Indigenous communities. Secondly, there’s a difference between dominant moods, themes, and peoples. Of course there were Queer/Trans people in previous generations of Indigenous thought, who I’ve done a great deal of work honouring and representing in my own work, actually. But we should also talk openly and honestly about the content that has dominated Indigenous theory, art, and literature for a minute. As David L. Eng might say, Indigenous thought has an aesthetic and it’s one tied up in issues resurgence, sovereignty, refusal, for instance.

Political theorist and writer Emily Riddle has taught me a lot about how governance doesn’t have to be limited to its nationalistic and masculinist version. Masculinist herein means dominated by men and theory by men, often preoccupied with colonial legalese and warring with the Canadian nation-state measured around the actions of men’s communities, erasing other facets of Indigenous community such as women, and Queer and Trans, spaces. Queer and Trans Indigenous peoples enact a different kind of governance in their actions everyday that is seldom talked about but which has been a powerful political and governing force in my life. We’re tired of being told that gender violence is secondary to Indigenous struggle, when we experience complex violences that we need to address to ensure our survival.

GWEN: What liberates you? What scares you? And what, in the face of colonialism and toxic masculinity, strengthens you?

LINDSAY: My kin! The future of 2S youth. My Queer and Trans teachings. Love. I know love gets a bad rap. But I’ve been in all facets of relationships defined through colonial language: triads, poly, monogamous, queer, lesbian, straight—you name it. What I’ve learned along the way is that there’s nothing inherently revolutionary about the way we fuck and are intimate. It’s the relationships, how we are in them with ethical actions (because fuck intention) that makes our relationships radical. I’ve gone to Queer play parties in Montreal that were poly run and supposedly consensual spaces, wherein I’ve witnessed rape. I’ve been in poly relationships that were some of the most abusive situations I’ve been in. I’m not talking about intimate touch, depersonalized action, and animacy removed from ethical entanglement. I’m talking about ethical love, as a philosophy.

All this to say, I stand by Queer NDN love as a philosophy and ethics, for living and relating. It’s what strengthens and liberates me in a world of performative politics and Indigenous identity politics, which are what scare me. They do nothing to ground that naturalization of Queer and Trans Indigenous death, but only feed individual ego, which is dangerous. As soon as we start saying that individual careers constitute politics, we remove Indigenous thought from action—from the streets.

GWEN: What are you hopeful for?

LINDSAY: Generational stuff is weird. I’ve gotten heck for calling this moment a gay renaissance but it’s not just in the Indigenous community. Queer and Trans content is suddenly everywhere. Artists like Janelle Monae, Hayley Kiyoko, Kehlani, and Demi Lovato who are making work that’s like, men (patriarchy) are (is) trash, we know this. So let’s “fuck it all back down,” to quote Monae. What more exciting is that this seems to be a moment resoundingly by and for femmes. Of course, visibility does not make us safer— perhaps the exact opposite. But it still feels meaningful to see
pop culture represent your futures, when you grew up with representations that showed you you perhaps didn’t have one.

But I don’t want it to seem like I am being devaluing of the important role Trans-masculinities play in our communities. Artists like Fallon Simard and Lacie Burning have shown that Indigenous Queer and Trans peoples are already leading Indigenous futures with their progressive organizing and activism, and associated backgrounds in queer anarchist and anti-capitalist politics.

We can’t be so reductive as thinkers and makers that we don’t recognize generational distinctions. We’d be remiss not to say that this generation is one that has proven themselves fed up with misogyny and gendered violence.

This piece is part of a collection of works by trans and queer Indigenous writers and artists. Explore the rest of the feature:

Prose by Kai Minosh Pyle ● Visual art by Fallon Simard ● Interview with Ziibiwan Rivers ● Prose by Jaye Simpson ● Poetry by Arielle Twist