Previous posts amplified various Indigenous scholars speaking to the ways that Indigenous stories are used pedagogically. They speak to the ways
in which both sharing and interpreting stories are valuable methods of
knowledge transmission. The forewords to anthologies of Indigenous science fiction articulate how Indigenous science fiction continues these living practices of engaging with story.
When discussing science fiction, both Dillon
and Vowel referenced Tsilhqot’in filmmaker Helen Haig-Brown’s 2009 film ?e?anx: The cave. The film is based on an old
traditional Tsilhqot’in story where a man goes through time travel and
dimensional travel by going into a cave. When he comes out, his animal
companion is dead because he is in the future. The film is an example of how
the practice of Indigenous storytelling is a living practice. You can watch the film online for free here: https://vimeo.com/168706600
As I noted
earlier, Vowel (2022) says that her stories contain Métis conventions, and
those conventions may not always be legible to non-Métis people (p. 14). There
are many examples of this science fiction, for example, where even when the
Windigo character is not explicitly named, Windigo motifs are prominent.
Likewise, when I read Land-water-sky / Ndè-tı-yat'a by Katłıà, I
immediately recognized it as a variation of what we in the Tsilhqot’in refer to
as the dog story. However, the motif may not be legible to someone
unfamiliar with Dene stories.
Because of these characteristics of Indigenous storytelling as a
living practice, I do not distinguish between “authentic” or “real” Indigenous
stories and modern-day literature, and I am troubled when others try to assert
such a distinction. Likewise, Sophie McCall, Deanna Reder, David Gaertner, and
Gabrielle L’Hirondelle Hill (2017) discuss how Indigenous stories “resist
categorization” (p. 326), meaning that there are a lot of stories that contain
both “traditional” elements and speculative fiction elements. As such, the
pedagogical function and interpretative practices outlined in the first part of
this chapter are applicable to Indigenous science fiction. I assert that
Indigenous speculative fiction is a continuation of a living tradition of
Indigenous storytelling and can be more fully encountered, understood and
appreciated when that is kept in mind.
Previous posts discussed how story can influence
our perspectives on the world. This also applies to the many stories told about
Indigenous people, or told to Indigenous people about ourselves, which
perpetuate harmful misconceptions. Several authors in the forewords speak to
the ways in which Indigenous people have been negatively impacted by various
narratives, including Sinclair’s (2016) reference to Darwinism (p. 16),
Dillon’s (2016) reference to manifest destiny (p. 9), McCall et al.’s (2017)
reference to terra nullius (p. 326), and McLeod’s (2016) note that narratives
within science have been used to “propagate colonialism” (p. 4). Sinclair notes
that in some cases Indigenous people have “internalized these oppressive
narratives” (p. 17). In response to the stories told by the colonizers, there
are multiple strategies that Indigenous people use, including debunking
specific false information and presenting facts to counter false information.
Speculative fiction is another strategy, and it works by presenting compelling
alternative narratives, thus challenging people to question their assumptions.
The verbs used to describe Indigenous speculative fiction are indicative of the
degree to which the ideas in the stories are attempting to change narratives
that already exist or bring back to life narratives which have been diminished
by colonialism. For example, Dillon (2012) uses the phrase “rethink the past” (p.
2), and Dillon (2016) also uses the phrase “reclaim sovereignty and
self-determination” (2016, p. 10), and “refashioning traditions” (p. 9). McLeod
(2016) uses the phrases “reimagine history” (p. 5) and “reimagining Indigenous
political and social situations” (p. 7), as well as “reshape Indigenous futures
and also to reshape understandings of the past” (p. 7).
Both
Vowel (2022) and McLeod (2016) present interesting conceptualizations of
science within the context of science fiction. Vowel (2022) references Imarisha’s
concept of social justice organizing as science fiction (p. 16). Social
sciences, including sociology, economics, political science, and psychology,
are forms of science, and thus stories which explore these topics could be
within the scope of science fiction. Likewise, professions which have aspects
that relate to science, such as health, education, and social work, could be
topics within science fiction. Science fiction can be a method of commenting on
sociology, economics, political science, psychology, health, education, and
social services. As such, Indigenous science fiction has potential as a form of
professional learning for individuals in this field who wish to explore
Indigenous perspectives.
McLeod (2016) uses a Cree word which relates to
someone who has spiritual power, does things beyond the ordinary, and does
things beyond explanation (p. 4). And he also discusses space exploration as including
exploration of one’s inner world, “the stars within us” (p. 4). As such, he
opens up science to include self-exploration and self-development at the level
of the soul, and presents science fiction as a way to support such growth.
As
an Indigenous person who works in education, I find that Indigenous speculative
fiction is a place of hope. Sinclair (2016) says the stories take us “beyond
that which we have inherited” (p. 17). As an educator, I work within a field
that has inherited many dark moments of racial oppression including
experimenting on Indigenous students by starving them (Mosby, 2013) and the confirmation
of child graves across Canada at former residential school sites. While some of
these moments may be in the past, structural racism persists in education.
As
an Indigenous person in education, I have inherited epistemological structures
which privilege whiteness and which are incredibly difficult to change. I
personally have had three major moments of crisis where I questioned whether or
not I could continue to work in the field of education. I find that there is a
heaviness that comes with being an Indigenous person in the field of education.
Institutional education is a rigid and highly regulated environment. Any small
change requires incredible effort to convince decision makers, first, that
change is worthwhile, and second, that the suggested change will be effective.
In such a context, hope can become a scarce resource, and as such, I look
towards speculative fiction to replenish hope. I am not alone in this. Dillon (2012)
speaks of the stories providing “Native futures, Indigenous hopes, and dreams”
(p. 2) and Sinclair (2016) speaks of “dreams, hope, and possibilities beyond
what we think we see.” (p. 17). Whitehead says the stories help us “think about
how we may flourish into being joyously animated,” and that “now more than ever
we need these stories” (p. 15). Vowel (2022) says that “having some space to
cast ourselves as far into the future is vital and potentially emancipatory” (p.
20).
Speculative
fiction can be a place of dreaming and a place of play. Dillon (2012) describes
such narratives as “mindscapes” and “thought experiments” (p. 3). McCall et al.
(2017) describe them as “some of the most fun, innovative, and fun-to-read
short fiction available” (p. 326). Whitehead (2020) describes utopias as
“sanctuary” (p. 12). Dreaming can involve imagining things that do not yet
exist, but which perhaps we hope could exist.
Even dystopias are a type of
dreaming. For example, in the novel The marrow thieves, even in the
midst of danger the characters live their lives according to Indigenous values
such as caring for the most vulnerable in the group and carrying on cultural
and linguistic knowledge. Dystopias and post-apocalyptic stories can teach us
about how to overcome hardship while retaining our Indigeneity.
Post-apocalyptic stories and dystopias can also help us think about what we
really value in life. For example, in Leanne Simpson’s 2017 dystopic climate
fiction “Akiden Boreal”, the main character saves for years and goes into
lifelong debt just for the opportunity to spend a brief amount of time in a
forest. Vowel (2022) says that the stories help us “set goals for the future
that do not privilege the colonial project without having to provide a
step-by-step plan for how to achieve these futures” (p. 19). In my experience,
opening up my imagination to speculative fiction unleashes my ability to dream,
and in doing so, enriches my ability to problem-solve in my day-to-day work.
Several
forewords invoke the term survivance, which is Chippewa scholar Gerald Vizenor’s term. The term combines the words “survival” and “resistance,” as
Indigenous survival is a form of resistance and Indigenous people have to
resist in order to survive. “Survivance is the active repudiation of dominance,
tragedy, and victimry” (Vizenor, 1998, p. 15). Survivance is framed by Vizenor (1998)
as "more than survival, more than endurance or mere response; the stories
of survivance are an active presence” (p. 15).
However, I have noticed that sometimes people have a negative reaction
to this term. For example, in a recently released podcast where current and
former Indigenous principals discuss a variety of issues in education, some of
the participants say that they wish to move beyond survivance (Roberts, 2023).
Thus, while I appreciate Vizenor’s survivance, I prefer to use Potawatomi
scholar Kyle Powys Whyte’s term “collective continuance.” He says:
Collective continuance is a community’s
aptitude for being adaptive in ways sufficient for the livelihoods of its
members to flourish into the future. The flourishing of livelihoods refers to
both indigenous conceptions of (1) how to contest colonial hardships, like
religious discrimination and disrespect for treaty rights, and (2) how to
pursue comprehensive aims at robust living, like building cohesive societies,
vibrant cultures, strong subsistence and commercial economies, and peaceful
relations with a range of neighbours. (Whyte, 2014, p. 602)
Collective
continuance is not just about individual physical survival. It is about the
collective surviving intact, as a collective. It is not mere existence, it is
imagining continuing beyond present challenges and the pursuit of a future that
goes beyond survival and instead focuses on flourishing. Some may argue that
survivance encompasses these things too. I am not saying that there is anything
wrong with the phrase survivance. I think it is an excellent phrase and I agree
that collective continuity is very similar to survivance. I am just stating
that I prefer collective continuance because in my opinion its positive
connotations are more immediately self-evident.
One
of the themes that stands out to me is the way that Indigenous science fiction
can support the wellness of Indigenous people. When words like “medicine” are
used to describe the impact of writing and/or reading Indigenous science
fiction, I understand it to be medicinal on a holistic level, which means that
it supports the well-being of an individual on a spiritual, emotional, physical,
and mental level. I do experience Indigenous science fiction as medicinal in
that sense. I enjoy reading about Indigenous people encountering and overcoming
various challenges, like zombies and aliens. It feels good to see Indigenous
people succeed in these stories. The stories are safe spaces to play with
sometimes risky ideas. I have spent enough time with these stories that they
have become part of my collection of internal wellness resources and I can call
on them when I need inspiration or courage. Early on in my studies, I made a
collage of many of the book covers and printed poster sized copies to hang in
my home and office. When I look at the posters, I feel happy to see
non-stereotypical images of Indigenous people, and it makes me feel like I can
be whatever I want to be in life. When I look at the posters and think about
the stories, I feel a sense of freedom that I wish I could feel in every area
of my life. When I say the stories are medicinal, I don’t mean that they are a
treatment for a specific malady. When I say they are medicinal, I mean that
they make me feel truly good.
Works Cited
Dillon, G. (2015). Imagining Indigenous futurisms. In
G. Dillon (Ed.), Walking the clouds: An anthology of Indigenous science fiction
(pp. 1-14). Tuscan, Arizona: The University of Arizona Press.
Dillon, G. (2016). Beyond the grim dust of what was.
In H. Nicholson (Ed.), Love beyond body, space & time: An Indigenous
LGBTQ sci-fi anthology (pp. 9-11). Winnipeg, Manitoba: Bedside Press.
Haig-Brown, H. (2009). ?e?anx: The cave [Motion
Picture]. VTape https://vtape.org/video?vi=6880
Katłı̨̀ą. (2020). Land-water-sky/Ndè-tı-yat’a.
Winnipeg, Manitoba: Fernwood publishing.
McCall, S., Reder, D., Gaertner, D., L'Hirondelle
Hill, G. (2017). Read, listen, tell: Indigenous stories from Turtle Island.
Waterloo, Ontario: Wilfred Laurier Press.
McLeod, N. (2016). Introduction. In N. McLeod (Ed.), mitewacimowina:
Indigenous science fiction and speculative storytelling (pp. 3-8).
Penticton, British Columbia: Theytus Books.
Mosby, Ian (2013). Administering colonial science:
Nutrition research and human biomedical experimentation in Aboriginal communities
and residential schools, 1942–1952. Histoire sociale 46 (1), 145–172.
Roberts, C. (Host). (2023, December 3). “Survivance” at
the district level (3) [Audio podcast episode]. In Walking in relation:
Indigenous pathways through education. https://www.walkinginrelation.com/episodes/episode-3
Simpson, L.B. (2017). This accident of being lost.
Toronto, Ontario: House of Anansi Press.
Sinclair, N. (2016). Returning to ourselves: Two
Spirit futures and the now. In H. Nicholson (Ed.), Love beyond body, space
& time: An Indigenous LGBTQ sci-fi anthology (pp. 12-19). Winnipeg,
Manitoba: Bedside Press.
Vizenor, G. (1998). Fugitive poses: Native American
scenes of absence and presence. Lincoln, Nebraska: University of Nebraska
Press.
Vowel, C. (2022). Buffalo is the new buffalo.
Vancouver, British Columbia: Arsenal Pulp Press.
Whitehead, J. (2020). Introduction. In J. Whitehead
(Ed.), Love after the end: An anthology of Two-Spirit & Indigiqueer speculative
fiction (pp. 9-16). Vancouver, British Columbia: Arsenal Pulp Press.
Whyte, K. (2020). Collective continuance. In G, Weiss,
A.V. Murphy, & G. Salamon (eds.), 50 Concepts for a critical phenomenology
(pp. 53-60). Evanston, Illinois: Northwestern University Press.
***
This is an adapted excerpt from my dissertation, Singing into the Machine, p.65-70
This blog is a sister blog to https://twinkleshappyplace.blogspot.com/
