Last week, there was talk of Cree poet Billy-Ray Belcourt, an illustrated book by Spokane-Coeur d’Alene writer Sherman Alexie, and the anthology This Place: 150 Years Retold showcasing a variety of Indigenous storytellers and artists. Now: a novel, a book of creation stories, a children’s book, and a memoir that works towards reconciliation.

Before readers encounter Genocidal Love (2020), we are invited to consider Michelle Coupal’s foreword; it contextualises the novel in the body of residential school literature which explores the legacy of the system. She refers to earlier volumes like Jane Willis’ Geniesh, a memoir described here as the first to disclose the author’s experiences in residential school. Comparatively, Coupal observes that Fox’s story includes just sixteen pages detailing the abuses she experienced at school, which is “exceptionally short” in the context of residential school literature. “Take care of yourselves as you read this section and remember to admire the strength of the story-sharer, Bevann Fox [of the Pasqua First Nation].”

Then, we have Bevann Fox’s preface; it explores the process of her transforming a memoir into fiction, which then transformed into a novel published about a decade ago, titled Abstract Love, revised and republished. At last, her novel. The bulk of her narrative is dedicated to the ways in which learned patterns repeat in the life of her narrator, Myrtle. “They had two faces. There were many people with two faces, and their behaviour was accepted by silence. And yet everyone knew.”

As understanding and determination increase, she re-defines her challenge: “I had escaped genocide by just a smidge. All my relationships were genocidal.” Her story is straightforward and deliberate: readers accompany her on the page, on her remembered journey. “I knew this process, as lengthy as it was, had helped my healing somehow. How have I survived this?”

Many other Indigenous residential school stories have been discussed here: books by Tomson Highway, David Alexander Robertson, Edmund Metatawabin (with Alexandra Shimo), Robert Arthur Alexie, Bev Sellars, Sheila Watt-Cloutier, Joseph Boyden, Lee Maracle, Tanya Tagaq, Michelle Good and Jordan Abel. Along with the Summary of the Final Report of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada.

One of the first books of Indigenous literature that I read was a “Canadian” collection of aboriginal myths and legends—mostly creation stories, as I remember it. That was about three decades ago, not far removed from the age at which I found mythology fascinating in general. (That collection led me to April Raintree and Basil Johnston and Maria Campbell. And for those curious about classic Indigenous stories like those, check out Storykeepers, for those who appreciate good listening. Thanks to Naomi for putting me onto this podcast, right at the beginning.)

As a schoolgirl, I accepted unthinkingly that mythological figures had both Greek and Roman names. So, by the time I read Indigenous myths, I was not surprised to find that places had more than one name too—but, at last, I began to understand what people meant about language and the power of naming. And later it occurred to me that this matter of gods and goddesses having more than one name was part of this process too, a process that I understood as “just the way things were” that was actually a much more complicated and violent process, and that there were more mythologies than I could imagine, whereas I had only studied one kind, and thought it was “the” kind.

Had I read “Nenaboozhoo and the Great Flood of Lake Huron” as a girl—about how he “got mad at his grandmother, and broke the giant Beaver Dam at Baawating (Sault St. Marie)” and, in turn, his grandmother got mad at him—my world would have cracked open. Myths about places I knew and had visited? (You might remember that I recently shared the mnemonic of HOMES for the Great Lakes in—the country currently called—Canada, in which I had lived on the “O” and now lived nearer the “S”…well, the “H” is for Huron.) A flood story that explained where a lake I knew had come from? How could you have convinced me to care about Olympus after that.

This volume of stories, The Trail of Nenaboozhoo and Other Creation Stories (2019), told by Bomgiizhik (Isaac Murdoch) from Serpent River First Nation on Lake Huron’s north shore and illustrated by Christi Belcourt, a Michif (Métis) artist, is dual-language at times: some tales are told in both Anishinaabemowin with English translations alongside (as in the photograph). It’s from an independent, Indigenous press, Kegedonce—owned by Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm, who contributed one of the stories in This Place too—so purchasing internationally would likely require a commitment to shipping costs.

When I spoke of sharing a crow story this week, I thought that Gabrielle Grimard was an Indigenous author when I picked up Lila et la corneille (2017), and I haven’t been able to confirm that. (I can, however, confirm that it’s a very satisfying story, richly illustrated, about a young girl, new to town, who is bullied by kids at school who compare her dark hair and skin and eyes to a crow…which turns out rather unexpectedly.)

But I also borrowed David Bouchard’s The Elders Are Watching (drawn to the volume by the art of Roy Henry Vickers, whose moose caught my eye recently, on the cover of a book I’ll have more to say about next week). This 2003 story, told in verse, begins with a note from the artist: “Revival, culture, heritage, environment, these are key words for this last decade of the century.” Bouchard’s note follows, and he tells of the importance of stories his Ya-A told about the elders—the Old Ones: “And as the stories became part of him, by the seashore in the clear red sky of early evening, he began to see them.”

Some of the images are so precise, so detailed, that they appear photographic. Others are coloured with such simplicity, such intensity, that they seem to belong to another artist. I’m especially pulled to the image in pale tones of blue and grey, with outlines of totem poles on the shore, misty figures with the outlines of faces (even fainter) beneath. They feel like apparitions, but with an emphasis on presence rather than absence. Towards the end of the volume, there’s another illustration of the modern-day coast of (what is now called) west-coast Canada, with fine lines bolstering the skyscrapers and tower in (what is now) Vancouver, and the totem poles are there, too.

“And there are those whose actions show.
They see the way things could be.
They do what they can, give all that they have.
Just to save one ancient tree.”

This invitation to care is expressed simply and beautifully by David Bouchard (Zhiibaayaanakwad), who is Métis/Ojibway of the Martin Clan, and Roy Henry Vickers, who is Haisla, Heiltsuk, and Tsimshian (Ts’msyen).

It’s also the perfect reading companion for Northern Light: Power, Land, and Memory of Water (2021). Kazim Ali lived for several years in (what is now called) northern Manitoba, where his father was employed by the Jenpeg hydroelectric project. His father was part of the “dam that led to so many broken promises, to such economic, social and environmental disaster.” Ali is not an Indigenous author, but his book feels like an act of reconciliation.

Born in the United Kingdom to Muslim parents of Indian, Iranian and Egyptian descent, Ali has published books of poetry and prose, essays and hybrid/experimental texts. Speaking to a poet with roots on the Lakota reservation, who now lives in (what is called today) Santa Fe, New Mexico, Ali describes to Laila his sense of uncertainty about whether his return to the lands of his childhood, to examine the impact of this project, is betraying his father. But he feels compelled by news from the community: “It happened last year—seven suicides in one month and then twenty-give more attempted suicides. At a school with five hundred or so students.” The Elders performed a ceremony, he explains. Laila drops her voice and says “they called you.”

Maps and treaties, statistics and hydroelectrical technology: there is a lot to absorb in this slim volume. Kazim Ali’s style is informal and inviting: his voice blends vulnerability and authority, and he consistently engages readers in his material. And often he directly relays the voices of the Indigenous people living this reality, like Chief Merrick: “I go down to Winnipeg a lot. To talk to the province. To get money. It’s my job. But there are people who say I should be staying here more and taking care of the people here. It’s a balance I have to keep.”

His recommended reading list is long and contains works as varied as Katherena Vermette’s poetry and Ingrid Waldron’s There’s Something in the Water: Environmental Racism in Indigenous and Black Communities, from Thomas King’s The Truth about Stories to Leanne Betasamosake Simpson’s As We Have Always Done: Indigenous Freedom through Radical Resistance.

Later this week: more poetry, more mythology, some short stories, and a collection of academic essays.