Fiction, reality, and hockey ideals

Although Seeking the Center is a novel, my motivation for writing the story was, initially, a desire to understand what hockey is. What the hockey life is. Although I made up most aspects of the story—the teams are fictional, the towns are fictional, and the characters, of course, are fictional—I tried to root every made-up detail in reality.

But writing a novel isn’t about reproducing reality, and I’ve come to realize that my need to understand, address, and critique reality sometimes means that my novel’s details aren’t entirely realistic. The character of Claude Doucette (“Deuce”), a Métis enforcer on a minor league hockey team, is a good example of this.

Claude’s family has suffered some recent misfortunes, and he feels obligated to provide them with financial and emotional support. To do so, he often leaves his fictional team in its fictional town in central Saskatchewan and drives north across the prairie to his hometown several hours away. He does this during hockey season, even when he has only one day off. It’s not at all realistic. The distances are huge, and one has to assume that the physical and mental demands placed on pro hockey players would make a trip like this—which Claude does on a fairly regular basis—nearly impossible. 

Although unrealistic, these frequent cross-province road trips address at least two topics that I encountered during my research. First, they highlight the fact that professional sport schedules are set up to maximize revenue, while de-prioritizing the personal lives and family relationships of players. Second, there’s the expectation that players should be willing to sacrifice themselves for their team.

In hockey the role of the enforcer represents the extreme of this notion. As an enforcer, Claude’s literal role is to defend his own teammates by fighting the enforcer on the opposing team. Luckily, the harm that this causes to the players involved has become more widely acknowledged in recent years, and actual “enforcers” are much fewer than they were in the ‘90s when Seeking takes place, but the glorification of “taking one for the team” and of fighting itself, persist.

“… I know how much you admire him—how much you admire that kind of player. You know, that big, strong warrior type.”
“I do,” she said.
“The way he’s always, like, camped out in front of the net, taking all that abuse. The way he never turns down a fight. He’s really tough.”
“He is… He’s awesome.”

In Claude’s case, this team/hockey role is echoed or amplified by the roles he plays within his family and community. 

“Claude,” asked Agnes, “what did you mean when you said that hockey’s a tough game, but also a tough life?”
“I meant it’s lonely. You’re on the road a lot. Away from the people who care about you.”
She didn’t say anything.
He continued. “You asked about Vin. He’s a good kid, but even if he could get his game back, if he has trouble when he’s living at home, with his family, it’s going to be real tough when he’s away, playing for some team in Alberta, or B.C. Real tough. Trust me.”
They were quiet for a while. Then Agnes said, “you don’t really want to play pro, do you?”
He shrugged. “It’s working out okay so far.”

At one point, Agnes compares him to a (First Nations) chief: 

…it didn’t seem like they’d only just met. And the light that washed across his upturned face seemed to shine both inside and out. She felt safe with him. He was just like those old chiefs.

In the character of Claude, the role of enforcer meets the trope of the nearly superhuman First Nations chief, a figure of tremendous character, of mental as well as physical strength, a leader who is there for his people, defending and providing for them no matter the cost to himself.  (I wrote about different contexts of “Chief” in an earlier post.)

Agnes thought of Vin, trapped somewhere in the cold maze of hallways, and the old stories flooded her mind, stories of Riel and Big Bear and Poundmaker, the leaders of her people, and how they’d been imprisoned, trapped outside the sun, the cycles, and the seasons —outside of life as they knew it— until they withered.

As a novelist, my goal is neither to hold up this notion of self-sacrifice as the ideal, nor to tear it down completely. I’m not a judge or a philosopher. I’m just trying to portray what I see, to put it out there for consideration, hopefully in an entertaining way. 

At five the next morning the sun rose over the horizon and Vin looked out his window to see Claude’s red pickup towing a wooden fishing skiff on an aluminum-frame trailer. Vin stepped out of the door with his hockey bag over his shoulder, his stick in his hand.
“We going fishing?” Vin asked.
“Nah. Already been out.”
“Jesus, Deuce. Do you ever sleep?”
“Sometimes.”

People rarely live up to an ideal. I think this is where my love for Claude, and all my characters, comes in. They are just people, barely bounded by reality, with idiosyncrasies that straddle a wavering line between character and caricature. 

On family separations and Indian residential schools

As the brutal separations of asylum-seeking families at the U.S.-Mexico border unfolded last week, my twitter feed was filled with folks writing "this is not who we are!" Quickly, these were countered by others saying, "this is exactly who we are and always have been" - and referencing, among other things, the Indian residential schools that were established in the U.S. (and in Canada) during the 19th and 20th centuries.

Designed to rob indigenous people of their culture, language, and family ties, these schools, where children were forcibly sent to live - apart from their parents - at kindergarten age or younger, were standard practice by colonialist and imperialist powers around the globe. The schools were one way to, essentially, brainwash children into accepting the dominant culture and dampen resistance to the ruling regime. Native American children (and First Nations children in Canada) were forced to have their hair cut, punished for speaking their native languages, made to practice Christianity instead of their native religions, and subjected to physical, mental, and sexual abuse. Tens of thousands died of sickness and malnutrition due to inhumane living conditions.

It should go without saying that separating families in this way has a (to say the very least) demoralizing effect on the parents whose children are taken. Robbed of your dearest, closest people, left with no one to help with daily tasks, unable to pass on treasured and life-giving traditions, what is left for you? And for the children, the loss of your childhood, your identity, and the absence of love reverberates for a lifetime. 

In my research on sports and hockey in indigenous communities I came across a number of people and communities that have been effected in this way by Indian residential schools in the United States and Canada. (I include Canada because, since Seeking the Center takes place in Canada, most of my research was focused there. However, conditions were the same in the United States.)

Michael Robidoux's book about First Nations hockey, Stickhandling through the Margins, has a chapter about the effects of the residential school system on one particular community, the Esketemc First Nation, through generations - effects including extremely high rates of alcoholism and other self-destructive behavior. Their saving grace is that they are coming together in recent years to find solutions. Robidoux describes how they are adopting (and adapting) hockey as a path toward healing.

In his documentary and book They Call Me Chief: Warriors on Ice, Don Marks writes about the fabulously talented Fred Sasakamoose, one of the first, if not the first, First Nations man to play in the National Hockey League. Sasakamoose was taken away from home at age five by force, his parents threatened with imprisonment. He told Marks, "the main thing I remember was the loneliness." At age 14 he ran away from residential school and hid. Despite his recruitment by and contract with the Chicago Blackhawks, he had been traumatized and never escaped the loneliness, the homesickness, and the sense of being different in a strange place. He cut his career short because of it.

Among examples in the U.S., I came across the great Jim Thorpe, Olympic track gold-medalist and professional football and baseball player. In an account of his life by Joseph Bruchac (Jim Thorpe: Original All-American), Thorpe says, "Running away was nothing unusual for a Carlisle student to do. Boys and girls ran away from the school all the time." Carlisle was the last of three residential schools that Thorpe attended, and he ran away from all of them. And though he documents the abusive treatment he and his fellow students experienced, the trauma of being away from home and family seemed to be the hardest thing to take.

Separating families as a way of promoting colonialist, imperialist, and racist agendas and of quelling resistance to the same is not new. We need to learn the history, and learn from the history. We must understand that this strategy as used by the current U.S. administration is not a random thing. It is part of a known pattern and strategy of such regimes and we need to call it out as such.

Addendum: Coincidentally, the New York Times ran an article about indigenous hockey players today, including information about Fred Sasakamoose, referenced above.

Update: Maria Campbell's "Halfbreed"

In March of last year I posted a few words about Maria Campbell's autobiography Halfbreed, one of the many books that inspired me when I was writing Seeking the Center.

Just a couple of weeks ago I read that a researcher has found two pages of Campbell's manuscript that were omitted when it was published in 1973. The pages describe Campbell's rape by a Canadian Mountie when she was fourteen years old (which would have been nearly twenty years earlier). It seems that her publisher decided not to include the passage for fear that the R.C.M.P. (Royal Canadian Mounted Police, aka "Mounties") would try to halt its publication.

At the time Jack McClelland, her publisher, reasoned that, if the incident were included in her story, the Mounties would challenge it, and the onus would be on Campbell to prove it. McClelland knew that the word of an Indigenous woman would mean nothing against the word of an R.C.M.P. officer. Campbell herself had wanted the passage included regardless, and didn't know that the publisher had nixed it until she received the printed copy in the mail. 

Perhaps it is fitting that the pages, and the associated story, should come to light in the #MeToo era. For more information, you can read the CBC story here. Please note that it includes the missing pages that describe the rape.

More thoughts about Agnes: a cost-benefit analysis of womanhood

Some of my friends and acquaintances who've read Seeking the Center have remarked that they "liked Agnes at the end" of the story -- which is interesting to me, because, does that mean they didn't like her at the beginning?

It ties in with a feeling I've had all along about Agnes, and about the way the book ends. I feel sad that, in some ways, at least, she "settles." Sometimes I worry that, maybe, she's not the girl-hero that I initially envisioned, routed for, and loved.

I think I understand what those readers mean, though. Agnes does "grow up." She becomes (visibly) less angry, more "likeable." There are positives there, surely, but there's also a loss, because that anger was not only a driving force in her psyche -- it was righteous.

As a woman -- and this may apply as well to other people who exist outside of society's dominant culture -- your anger doesn't ever get resolved. It doesn't disappear, either. You only "choose" to deal with it in different ways, ways that allow you to "grow up" and "move forward," but that also cause you to bury parts of yourself and your experience.

So, do I "like Agnes at the end" better than I did at the beginning? I don't know. I do think she is more compassionate, more emotionally intelligent. There is an upside to this change, and part of the benefit, I hope, will accrue to her. But what is the cost, not only to her as an individual person with only one life to live, but multiplied out across society? What is the cost of millions of Agneses "growing up" and "moving forward," while leaving their anger unaddressed, unanswered, unresolved?

It makes me think of the famous Langston Hughes poem. What does happen to a dream deferred?

Agnes, Maria Campbell, and the light inside

Who is Agnes, protagonist of Seeking the Center? Where did she come from? The short answer is, I don't know. 

She's not autobiographical. I have never been as tough, as brave, or as smart-assed as she is. (I only wish I was!)

I've mentioned that she began, partly, as a question about being female in the overwhelmingly male world of ice hockey. And that's certainly true.

Ultimately, though, a lot of things entered into the mix that became Agnes's character. And while I will never uncover all of them, I can say that one major inspiration is the life of Maria Campbell, a Métis woman who persevered through extreme difficulties to become a writer, a teacher, a much-respected elder, and an advocate for Métis and women's rights.

I found Campbell's Halfbreed by chance, browsing the stacks at Powell's Books in Portland, Oregon, and I owe an eternal debt of gratitude to whomever it was that sold their used copy to Powell's! The autobiography is riveting and a must-read for everyone.

Campbell was born in 1940 in Park Valley, SK, a poor Road Allowance community. (Unlike other Aboriginal groups, the Métis were not granted rights to land under treaties with the Canadian government, so many were forced to squat on "road allowances" - Crown lands set aside for future roadways.) At age 33 she wrote Halfbreed, an autobiography documenting her life up until that time. In Halfbreed, Campbell never shies away from the poverty, alcoholism, violence, addiction, racism, and sexism that she faced, but she nevertheless manages to portray some of the beauty of her Métis culture and the love that existed within her family, troubled though it may have been.

While devastating at times, Halfbreed remains a testament to the dignity and spirit that people can possess, nurture, and share in defiance of even the direst circumstances and the most heartless enemies. Campbell has this light within herself, and she also has the ability to find it, and to inspire it, in others. In spite of people who fail her, and circumstances that drag her down, she retains the ability to love and to trust others, and to parlay that love into something that can sustain and nourish.

Agnes doesn't experience the hardship and desperation that Campbell did, but she has the same light inside her. And in Seeking the Center, she learns to find it and use it, for her own good and for the good of others.

Some notes on ‘Chief’ as a (hockey) nickname

In Seeking the Center, there’s a scene where Claude is referred to as “Chief” by an opponent:

Good thing you got ol' Chief there to look out for you, eh MacKenzie?

It's not meant as a compliment, either for MacKenzie, who, it is implied, is not man enough to stand up for himself, or for Claude, whom the opponent tries to belittle by referring to him by the racial stereotype “Chief.”

Hockey nicknames are known for their unimaginative-ness, and while researching Seeking, I quickly learned that “Chief” is, or was at one time, the go-to for First Nations/Native American/Métis players of hockey - and other sports as well. According to Don Marks, author of They Call Me Chief: Warriors on Ice, “almost every Indian who played in the NHL or anywhere else has been called ‘Chief' at one time or another.”

Jim Neilson, who played in the NHL in the 1960s and 1970s, told Marks,

I’ve been called Chief all my life, everywhere else I go. In hockey, you know that your teammates were calling you Chief in a friendly, natural sort of way. But then you would play guys from other teams and you knew it wasn’t so friendly. Most of it was just during the heat of the battle and they were trying to throw you off your game and you just ignore it.

Stan Jonathan, Mohawk/Tuscarora NHL forward from 1976-1983, said, also to Don Marks,

They called me Little Chief and I didn’t mind that. It was when they called me ‘wahoo’ or ‘F#$%’n little Indian’ that I didn’t like [it]...

Judging from Neilson’s and Jonathan’s comments, the context of the name-calling could influence players' feelings about it. But also, as Jonathan indicates, the term “Chief,” while intended to isolate, belittle, and ridicule a person on the basis of race, might have been different, in some sense, than other slurs.

Year in Nam is Leroy TeCube's memoir of the year he served as a G.I. in Vietnam. (I also wrote about it in an earlier post.) Like Jim Neilson and Stan Jonathan, TeCube, a Jicarilla Apache man, was given the nickname “Chief” by his "teammates," i.e. the soldiers in his platoon.

When I joined the platoon it consisted mostly of white GIs, followed by blacks and Hispanics. I was the only American Indian. Someone asked, ‘What race are you? You look like an Indian.'

TeCube describes how he discussed his tribal affiliation with the guys, until finally one of them says, “In that case we’ll call you ‘Chief.’” TeCube answers him, “In my traditional way the title of chief is earned and shown respect.” He then recalls: 

Most of the guys would call me Chief from then on, although a handful of individuals called me by my real name. Up until that moment throughout my training no one even suggested calling me Chief. I wondered why that was so. Perhaps because as trainees we were used to being treated as animals and were addressed by our last names. Now here in Vietnam everyone had an identity. 

Regardless of how the name was intended, TeCube chooses how he will take it - he re-appropriates it - and throughout his service in Vietnam he works hard to live up to the name “chief” and what it means to him and his traditional beliefs. He writes:

I also thought of my new responsibility from my Jicarilla Apache way...the short translation of Nahn Tahn is leader. A more indepth translation, however, describes it as someone who is also an orator. He tells his people what happened in battle or what is about to happen to them next...being Nahn Tahn was something to be feared. Only the very strong took on the responsibility. One had to set a good example and ensure that the needs of everyone in his group were met before he thought of himself. He must never be corrupted or gain wealth from his position. The main criteria were that he never retreat in battle and he show a lot of courage. He had to be the first one into a conflict, and if need be, he would fight single-handedly with an enemy leader…

Towards the end of his time in Vietnam, TeCube recalls “meeting a fellow soldier who was Navajo...as we talked I realized he was also a leader within his platoon and was also called Chief. This gave me a good feeling, knowing that another individual lived up to the name.”

Finally, TeCube is awarded sergeant’s stripes. He writes: 

That day I felt a great sense of pride and accomplishment. I never expected to be a sergeant when I entered the army. Now I had orders in my hand stating just that. I also knew that I had earned the rank….It took a little time before I got used to being called sergeant or sarge. Some called me Sergeant TeCube. Most of the time I still went by Chief or Sergeant Chief. This had more meaning. According to my traditional beliefs, I had now earned the right to be called Chief.

TeCube - along with all of his platoon-mates - quickly recognizes the futility of the Vietnam War, but, having no choice in the matter, he takes it as an obstacle to overcome, just as he takes the moniker given to him, "Chief," as a personal challenge. And while I didn't know about TeCube and hadn't read his story when I was writing Seeking, I like the way that, without knowing it, the player who calls Claude "Chief" unwittingly points to certain facets of Claude's character and aspirations, facets that don't come to light until later in the story. Claude feels that he has little choice but to play what he thinks of as "this white man's game," and while, like TeCube, he is certainly aware of racism and the obstacles it places in his path, he soldiers on, keeping his identity, self-respect, and dignity intact.

Update: I’ve written another post about Claude and the idea/ideal of the Chief.

Louis Riel Day and Métis nationhood

After reading Seeking the Center a friend of mine became curious about the description Métis that appears on the back cover of the book. She looked it up and asked me about it. "It means mixed race, right?" she asked. "Like mestizo."

Well, no. There's confusion about the designation Métis. On the one hand, yes, the French word métis, with a lower-case m, literally means mixed, often used to describe people of "mixed blood" - i.e., people who are bi- or multi-racial. But Métis, with a capital M, does not.

The Métis, as a people, have their roots in the North American fur trade, going back as far as the 17th century, when European fur traders and Indigenous people began forming alliances, often cemented by, or taking the form of, marriages between fur traders and indigenous women. The children of these marriages often intermarried among themselves, and over generations developed their own language (Michif) and culture. They became a large and influential group in the Canadian and American west, working not only as hunters, fur processors, pemmican manufacturers, and voyageurs, but as guides, translators, traders, merchants, and so on. Today they are recognized by the Canadian government as one of three Aboriginal groups - i.e., cultural groups that existed originally, before Canada itself: First Nations, Inuit, and Métis. The United States has never recognized the Métis as a distinct cultural group, although their northern plains homeland extends across the U.S.-Canada border.

The Métis are also, in the same sense as, say, the Ojibwe or the Cree, a nation, and one whose origin predates the arrival of the Canadian and U.S. governments to their homeland. Their sense of nationhood developed over the course of generations, and was solidified during the 19th century through a series of political/military events including the Battle of Seven Oaks (1816), the trial of Guillaume Sayer (1849), and the Métis resistances at Red River, Manitoba (1870) and in Saskatchewan (1885).

The Métis leader in the latter two confrontations was Louis Riel, a charismatic, spiritually inclined, and enigmatic man who envisioned a Native nation in North America. His forces were crushed both at Red River and at Batoche, Saskatchewan, by the Canadian government, then in its infancy. He himself was captured, tried, and hung for treason by Canadian authorities after the defeat at Batoche in 1885. 

Since 2008, the third Monday in February has been designated Louis Riel Day in the Canadian province of Manitoba. In other parts of Canada, Louis Riel, as well as Métis culture in general, are celebrated on November 16, the anniversary of Riel's execution. 

Here are some titles for further reading - by no means an exclusive list! - in order of publication date: 

• Strange Empire: A Narrative of the Northwest by Joseph Kinsey Howard (1952)
• Many Tender Ties: Women in Fur-Trade Society, 1670-1870 by Sylvia Van Kirk (1980)
• Strangers in Blood: Fur Trade Company Families in Indian Country by Jennifer S. H. Brown (1980)
• The People Who Own Themselves: Aboriginal Ethnogenesis in a Canadian Family, 1660-1900 by Heather Devine (2004)
• One of the Family: Metis Culture in Nineteenth-Century Northwestern Saskatchewan by Brenda Macdougall (2010)
• "Métis": Race, Recognition, and the Struggle for Indigenous Peoplehood by Chris Andersen (2014)

La belle Françoise: the evolution of a traditional song

"La belle Françoise" is a song that appears in Seeking the Center and on my Seeking the Center playlist. I think its background is interesting, and I want to share it with you. 

When I was writing Achille's main scene in Seeking, I looked for a song that could play a certain role in it. (I won't elaborate on that role, because I don't want to spoil the story.) I wanted a traditional voyageur song, because that is a major part of Achille's background and identity. (The voyageurs were the French Canadian paddlers of the birchbark canoes that carried trade goods north and west into the interior of North America, and brought back loads of furs to the companies in Montreal. They used traditional songs to synchronize their paddling. Most of these songs pre-dated France's first settlements in Quebec, so they date back to the 17th century or earlier.)

"La belle Françoise" appears in sources including Grace Lee Nute's The Voyageur and Thomas R. Draughon's Canot d'Écorce: Chansons de Voyageurs. Though it isn't the song most associated with the voyageurs, I chose it because of its minor key, which gives it a melancholy mood, and because of its lyrics, which dramatize the impending separation of two lovers.

In the song, Françoise weeps because her man must go to war, but he assures her that, if she waits for him, he will return and marry her. Their plight echoes the situations of some of my characters. Although it is not actual war that they are going to, they are facing unknown and sometimes hostile situations, away from their homeplaces.

You can listen to different versions of the song on YouTube. I chose Garolou's live version for my Seeking the Center playlist mainly because it makes an exciting finale. But it also represents a further evolution of the song that, although it doesn't pertain to Seeking, is interesting in its own right. 

Garolou was a French-Canadian group active in the 1970s that often took traditional French and French-Canadian chansons (songs) and gave them modern, rock settings. "La belle Françoise" was an early hit for them (mid 1970s). You can hear how they've contemporized it with a Vietnam-era anti-war message by inserting an intense version of "La Marseillaise." The Seeking the Center playlist version is from Garolou's 1997 live Réunion album.

A momentous race, at home and in 'Nam

A few summers ago, while researching for Seeking the Center, I read a number of books about sport in Native American/First Nations cultures. (If you're a member of Goodreads, you can follow me there and see what's on my bookshelf.) American Indian Sports Heritage by Joseph B. Oxendine, in particular, stresses the centrality of sport to Native life and belief, as does Tom Vennum in his American Indian Lacrosse: Little Brother of War, which I wrote about here. 

I'm reading Year in Nam, now, Leroy TeCube's memoir of his experiences serving as an infantryman in Vietnam in 1968 and 1969. TeCube is Jicarilla Apache, and in his book he often reflects on the role his heritage played in his actions and ultimate survival. In light of my earlier research, I found the following passage especially interesting. It weaves together TeCube's memory of a traditional tribal relay race with a life-or-death race to cross a bridge under enemy fire in Vietnam.

Published by University of Nebraska Press, Lincoln and London. Winner of the 1996 North American Indian Prose Award.

As I ran across the narrow bridge I had a flashback to my youth. On September 15 of every year my tribe has a traditional relay race between our two clans. The outcome of the race determines the type of year ahead. Depending on which clan won, there would be more wild game or crops. This race gives my people an idea of how to plan their activities for the year to come.

The relay race is on a racetrack three hundred yards long and about ten yards wide. Head runners are determined at a preliminary race the day before. Before the race starts, elderly men paint the runners in an aspen kiva, conduct prayers for them, and run down the track blessing it. When they finish the race starts with the head runners running at a full sprint down the track. When they reach the end of the track another set of runners runs back. This goes back and forth until a clan gets ahead by a full length of the track. When that happens the clan in the lead wins the race. If the runners from each clan are evenly matched the race could take several hours.

I had participated in the race several times. It could be very deceptive, especially going in an easterly direction. That is because in that direction about three-fourths of the way down is a slight rise that looks like the finish line. If you are not aware of the illusion your energy is expended when you reach this point, and you have to continue on with heavy legs. Elderly men holding aspen branches give you words of encouragement and whip you on the legs with the branches for added strength. It works. You find the burst of energy needed to take you to the finish line

I was now about three-fourths of the way across the narrow bridge. My legs were heavy from carrying my pack. I thought of the elderly men in our traditional race. In an instant, just that thought gave me the encouragement to continue. I ran off the bridge on the other side and took cover next to the trail. After catching my breath I fired toward the wood line. Out of the corner of my right eye I could see the others running the same race. Eventually, we all made it across without a casualty.

As TeCube describes, the ritual relay race has spiritual and practical dimensions, but also serves as a way to build and inspire courage and determination. It would be interesting to know whether, traditionally, the race was in any way considered to be, like American Indian lacrosse, a "little brother of war," or if it just worked out that way for TeCube in this instance. In any case, it was a treat to, unexpectedly, come across this intriguing recollection.

Wearing Our Identity: an exhibit of Native clothing at the McCord Museum

Seeking the Center's Agnes Demers is hockey player and a tough, unsentimental young woman. But she also loves to cook for her friends and family, and is a craftswoman as well. Many of the women in my family also take pleasure in making clothing for their loved ones, especially for their children and grandchildren. The impulse to do this is ages old and, I think, very moving. 

Porter Son Identité (Wearing Our Identity), an exhibit at The McCord Museum in Montreal, has been a major source of inspiration to me in writing Seeking. It is an installation of First Nations, Inuit and Métis clothing that has to be seen to be believed. Next time you're in Montreal, do yourself a favor and check it out.

I also invite you to go to the webpage, look at the photos, and watch the short video narrated by Guislaine Lemay, one of the show's curators. (You can also find it on YouTube.) It's in French with English subtitles, and it touchingly conveys the very tangible expression of love that I tried to express in Seeking.

What does your sport mean to you?

While writing Seeking the Center, I tried to investigate the different meanings that hockey can have for different people. If you're interested in this topic too, I recommend that you read American Indian Lacrosse: Little Brother of War, by ethnomusicologist Thomas Vennum, Jr. 

Most everyone knows that lacrosse originated among various Native American tribes. In American Indian Lacrosse, Vennum explores the significance of the game within these cultures, past and present. Lacrosse, for them, is not just a game to play; rather, it's tied to many other aspects of life. Deeply rooted in the story of creation itself, it can function as a sort of prayer for health or fine weather, a way to train for combat, a mode of resistance against colonialist powers, or a way for young people to express pride in their tribal identities.

That's not an exhaustive list, nor does it do justice to the wealth of narrative, artistic, medicinal, social, spiritual, and other lacrosse-related traditions that Vennum describes, but you get the idea. This is a fascinating account with a wealth of illustrations and well-told stories. And as a bonus, reading it just might give you a new perspective on your favorite sport and your relationship to it.

My dog-eared, post-it-adorned copy of the 1994 classic, in which historical vignettes and contemporary conversations illuminate the contexts for the Native game.

Getting just a wee bit political, maybe

Last night I attended the concert that showcases and honors this year's National Endowment for the Arts National Heritage Fellows. The National Heritage Fellowships are awarded by the Arts Endowment to "recognize the recipients' artistic excellence and support their continuing contributions to our nation's traditional arts heritage."

A basket woven by Theresa Secord, Penobscot Nation

In other words, the awardees are people who have taken a traditional art form--for example, Dakota flute making and performance or Laotian khaen playing, white oak basket making or Huastecan son performance--brought it, through their own personal passion, persistence, and skill, to the next level, and--very importantly--been persistent in their efforts to assure their art's survival by being teachers, spokespeople, and/or advocates.

The concert at which each year's honorees present their art is always an incredibly moving affair, presented by the National Council for the Traditional Arts and a small cadre of devoted folklorists who come back year after year to assist. This year it was broadcast live over the internet, and you can watch it here.

Believe me, I don't want to take anything away from the artists themselves, from the amazing variety and beauty of the traditions represented, or from the profound nature of taking a precious tradition, with deep roots, and carrying it forward to future generations. But to me the evening represented another sort of continuity as well. It began with a set of tunes performed by awardee Billy McComiskey, an Irish button accordion player from Baltimore, joined, to my surprise, by two previous heritage fellowship awardees Mick Moloney, a multi-instrumentalist and vocalist, and Liz Carroll of Chicago, one of the greatest Irish fiddle players you'll ever have the good fortune to hear. I have special places in my heart for both Mick and Liz, because I remember them as good people and great to work with. But Liz is special to me--I don't know why, maybe because she's a woman and not many years older than I am.

When Liz was awarded her heritage fellowship back in 1994, I was a young person working in the field of folklore in DC, lucky enough to score an invitation to the ceremony on Capitol Hill. First Lady Hillary Clinton officiated, and she was very engaged, taking time to greet and congratulate all the fellows, especially D.L. Menard, a Cajun musician from her home state of Louisiana. But she also expressed particular interest in Liz and in Liz's entourage, which included her two young children.

Twenty-two years later? I don't want to make this post political, but I can't help noting that Liz, her children now grown, continues to honor us with her lively, nuanced fiddle playing, and Mrs. Clinton, now a grandmother, is still seeking to further serve our nation.

I have great admiration for people who show such persistence in their true passion over the course of a lifetime. The wisdom and experience that they have accrued and are so willing to share are things that we can't afford to throw away. 

Métis fiddler Jimmie LaRocque of Turtle Mountain

Back in the 1990s, as production associate for the Folk Masters concert and radio series, I had the honor and pleasure of meeting Jimmie LaRocque, a Métis fiddle player from the Turtle Mountain Reservation in North Dakota.

I will never forget this remarkably energetic, enthusiastic sixty-something year-old man who drove the entire way from his home near Belcourt, North Dakota (practically on the Canadian border) to Washington, DC (a distance of almost 1600 miles!) and arrived none the worse for wear.

As a young person, Mr. LaRocque absorbed many influences and, like so many musicians, was eager to play the popular music of the day. By age 17 he was in Texas, playing with a band called The Western Kings out of Corpus Christi. Later, he lived in California and played backup fiddle for touring country bands including Grand Ol' Opry performers Kitty Wells, Ray Price and Ernest Tubb.

But he never forgot the traditional tunes that he taught himself to play on his dad's fiddle as a boy. He is quoted in the 1994 Folk Masters program book:

The Indian old-time fiddle music is a lot different. It seems like it's got a lot more meaning. In my mind sometimes I play fiddle here, and I swear to God I close my eyes a little bit and I can see my dad sit there by me with his fiddle. You play this Indian music and then it's like the whole sky, it's like a great big movie camera is showing a big picture on there. On the sky you can see Indians coming on spotted horses and you can see the wind blow.

Mr. LaRocque passed away in 2009.

This link will take you to a short sample of Mr. LaRocque playing the Métis fiddle tune "Road to Batoche" on the Smithsonian Folkways recording Wood That Sings. Batoche (the Smithsonian Folkways listing misspells the name) was a Métis settlement in Saskatchewan and the headquarters of their fight against Canadian forces in 1885. Métis people sometimes call that resistance la guerre nationale "the national war," (i.e., the war of the Métis nation), which gives you a sense of its importance to them as a people.

Batoche is now a Parks Canada National Historic site, as well as the home of "Back to Batoche," the Métis nation's annual commemoration of its culture, traditions and heritage.

Batoche in 1885. Unknown photographer. This image is available from Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec under the reference number P600,S6,D5,P1309. Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=44641160