Clever girl!

SO YOU WANT TO WRITE ABOUT CANADA’S ABORIGINALS

Let’s start with spelling and nomenclature. Always use the word ‘aboriginal’ with a small ‘a.’ Use ‘aboriginal’ instead of Indian, Métis or Inuit. If you’re writing a story in the high Arctic, who cares if there isn’t a single, solitary Indian or Métis within a thousand kilometres or more? Similarly, use ‘aboriginal’ if you’re writing about treaty rights on a northern reserve. Nobody cares if there aren’t any Métis or Inuit in the story, or that only Indians signed treaties. Details like this can confuse the reader and audience. Facts and details are to be avoided. Your audience won’t know or care. Most likely, the Inuit in that story about the Arctic won’t complain or raise a fuss. Neither will those Indians in that treaty story. Literacy levels are low. They probably can’t afford to subscribe to your newspaper or news service. Why waste a lot of words when one will do — ‘aboriginal?’ (Don’t forget to use the small ‘a’: no need to suggest any complicated legal significance by using a capital ‘A.’)

Avoid using the term ‘Aboriginal peoples‘ — that pluralizing ‘s’ also has legal complications. It’s like that term older journalists once used — ‘native peoples.’ The ‘s‘ at the end of ‘peoples’ meant something in international law. Why get into any of that? Who cares? Back then, we journalists called them all ‘natives’ with a small ‘n’ and they seemed quite happy. Maybe people in Africa, Asia or Australia didn’t like being called “natives,” but our natives didn’t mind. Our “aboriginals” don’t mind today either.

Make sure you use the possessive, such as “our aboriginals” or “Canada’s aboriginals.” It reminds everyone in your audience who really owns this country and who’s in charge. Don’t encourage minor irritants who cling to notions of self-determination.

Read the rest here and you too may cover Canada’s aboriginals with confidence! http://www.mediaindigena.com/dan-david/arts-and-culture/no-colonialism-here

(via ayiman)

forgetfulfish:

Here’s why some Anons are motivated to send you hate.

Whether you meant to or not, when you took the photograph you were doing the following:

1. Sexualizing Native women—turning them into a fetish.
2. Reducing feathers and warbonnets to cute fashion accessories. 

MAKING NATIVE WOMEN INTO A FETISH: Why it’s shitty, and what makes me think that you’re doing it.

[Trigger warning: sexual assault, rape, genital mutilation]

Why I think you’re doing it (I’m using this photo as a specific example, but almost all of them fall along these lines):

• you’re wearing revealing clothing
• you’re posing sensually
• you presumably took the photo in Native regalia in the first place to make yourself seem more attractive

You look super hot! And you’re trying to make yourself seem more hot by adding the warbonnet. It’s exotic. It implies that you’re in touch with your inner Sexy Spirit. 

Why this is a harmful (or at the very least, in extremely poor taste) 

Let’s put your Native-is-sexy mentality into context.

• More than one in three Native women will be raped during her lifetime.

• Tribes cannot prosecute non-Native rapists because of laws made by the United States government. (read the link for more info) This means that non-Native persons assault Native women in their homes regularly and get away with it. 88 percent of all violent crime against Native people are committed by Non-Natives.

• Native women were routinely raped, sexually assaulted, and mutilated by White “settlers” as a way to exert control over Native communities. (My source for this is the same as #1). Here’s an eyewitness account from 1864: 

“I heard one man say that he had cut a woman’s private parts out, and had them for exhibition on a stick… I also heard of numerous instances in which men had cut out the private parts of fmeales, and stretched them over their saddle-bows and some of htem over their hats.”

You’re portraying Native women as sex objects, something to fantasize about, in a society in which they have a 33% chance of being raped. If they live on a rez, and the rapist does not, they have no effective way to prosecute their rapist. Do you see how portraying Native women as sex objects—how making them into a fetish—could possibly, maybe, contribute to the rates being so high? Or even going up in the future?

I’m not going to get into #2 here, because this post is long enough as-is. To sum up why it’s bad, though: consider the implications of Osama Bin Laden’s grandchildren posing for pictures wearing a badly-replicated Medal of Honor. Or uploading photos of their new smexy crucifix tramp stamp.

Do you see the issue here?

(via oogishkamaanisee)

selchieproductions:

From the American Eagle Feather Law;

Anyone who possesses an eagle feather, and doesn’t meet the requirements, could face fines up to $100,000 and a year in prison. A second offense is upgraded from a misdemeanor to a felony, and carries a maximum penalty of two years in prison and a $250,000 fine. The act also provides for a civil penalty of up to $5,000.

And under Canadian law;

[Canada Wildlife Act 33 2)] A person commits an offence if the person has dead wildlife or a part of any wildlife in his or her possession except as authorized under a licence or permit or as provided by regulation.

In Canada, however, getting a permit is not restricted to members of First Nations, but to sell eagle feathers is still considered a criminal offence. Also, in order to keep an eagle feather found in nature, or parts of a dead eagle found somewhere in Canada, said feather or eagle has to be brought to the provincial Ministry of Natural Resources.

According to a binational agreement, Native Americans/First Nations individuals are permitted to travel with eagle feathers to and from respective country. Inuit and Métis individuals, however, are excluded from said agreement.

slaykob:

The following is an essay I wrote for a college English class.  It’s a narrative about how I took a stand against cultural appropriation, utilizing a personal experience.

~

Two months ago, I went on a road trip with two of my friends, Jemimah Barba and Jose Cital, to Los Angeles.  We were going to see a rock show in Pomona.  The trip was Jemimah’s plan; I was contracted to be the driver.  It sounds like a movie-tale three-friends-on-the-road-out-for-adventure type gig, but it was honestly one of most frustrating and mundane weekends I’ve ever had.  The drive was excruciatingly long and cramped, we got lost in L.A.’s maze of under-construction highways, the guy we stayed with was a jerk, and I spent most of my idle time less than sober.  It didn’t go too well, not for me anyway, but at the very least, I got to tell Jemimah and Jose about something important to me.

I had been dreading and looking forward to the trip for days; dreading it because it’s my gut’s default setting for everything, and looking forward to it because there was the off-chance it might be fun.  Nevertheless, I woke up that morning before the sun came out.

It wasn’t until eleven that Jemimah and Jose were ready for pick-up at Jemimah’s house.  Jemimah is the spitting imitation of today’s independent young girl: seventeen, a starving artist, cute and beguiling, fashionably current, well-connected, an immigrant with an iPhone.  She travels on her own a lot, often without telling her mother. 

Jemimah and Jose squished themselves into my two-seat pick-up truck, with Jemimah in the middle because she’s the smallest.  As soon as they got in, there was an explosion of immaturity.  Phones and cameras came out, and the radio immediately went on full blast; Jemimah began shrieking at Jose’s foul stories.  There was dancing and elbows everywhere, jabbing me in the ribs as I merged into the fast lane.  Two hours and 100 miles later, our mobile disco pulled into a Shell station in Bakersfield.

We unpacked our bodies out of my truck and stretched.  Jemimah was supposed to be carrying the money she and Jose were pitching in for gas; roughly forty dollars.  I asked her for the money. “Let me look for it,” she responded.  Together, Jose and Jemimah ripped open every pocket in the truck before Jemimah said, “I think I left my wallet at home.”  Her round face showed no expression.  Neither did mine; I was dumbstruck.  Then Jose doubled over in sudden distress and shouted, “Oh fuck!”

“I forgot the tickets!  I’m so, so sorry.  Shit.”

Behind his black glasses, his brown eyes showed true penitence.  He was very sorry, but I was beginning to feel more sorry for myself.  Jemimah, however, was less than contrite.  Sometime while I was staring at my feet in disillusionment, Jemimah had put on a pink and red feathered headdress.  She looked like a federally enrolled member of the Party Works Tribe of Hipster Indians.  Jemimah stared at me with her sweet, innocent face while that glue-and-felt atrocity fluttered weakly in the wind.  “So, we should go back to Fresno and get the tickets, yeah?” she suggested.

I felt disrespected.

For those mainstream commoners who do not devote their luxuriant free time staying on the cutting edge of pop-youth culture, there is a trend going around Indie rock groups where suburban teenagers dress up in war paint, headbands, turquoise jewelry, and little else.  The look has been popularized at music festivals like Coachella, on social media sites like Tumblr, and by celebrities like Kesha.  The Plains-style feathered headdress is the mascot of the movement.

I ended up paying the gas tab myself, then we all piled back into the truck and headed back north.  Jose sat in the crawlspace behind the seats, and Jemimah sat in the passenger’s seat.  I began to feel like a chauffeur for children.  I drove in a rigid position with my eyes always forward, like a racehorse.  Twenty miles into the drive, I turned to Jemimah and broke the uncomfortable silence that filled the car like a thick smoke.  I exhaled and spoke in a deeper tone than usual, “You know, you’re offending me.”

Jemimah’s innocent face turned away from the window to look at mine; she seemed confused and suddenly meek.  Jose leaned forward.  “How?” she mouthed.

“Your headdress is stupid and disrespectful, like a mascot or a costume.”

“What do you mean?” asked Jose.

I cleared my throat and explained.  Cultural appropriation is when one society improperly adopts the aesthetics or practices or other societies and cultures.  The so-called ‘Hipster Headdress’ is a prime example of cultural appropriation.  The purpose of the headdress is to evoke a romanticized Wild West, and the symbolism is that the anti-mainstream hip kids are comparable to an fiercely oppressed culture.  To most Plains tribes (and only those tribes; the headdress is not universal to Native American cultures), the feathered headdress is still considered a sacred adornment, meant to be worn by the most honorary of tribal members.  Now it’s being worn by drunk girls at college parties all over America.

“I’m sorry,” Jemimah said just above a whisper.  She took the headdress off and put her small hand on my shoulder.  I wanted to smack it off like a fly.  The rest of the drive was in silence with the radio on blast.  An hour later, we were back in Fresno.  Jose found the tickets, Jemimah found the money, and we at some spaghetti.  Then we headed out all over again.  The rest of the trip was hardly worth writing about.

Jemimah Barba moved to America from the Philippines three years ago, so I tried not to blame her for her ignorance or be too harsh on her.  She couldn’t have known any better.  Except she did know, because I had told once before, after seeing the headdress on Facebook.  I may have been rude, but I’m glad I was able to inform her and Jose on the ethics, or lack thereof, of pop culture, and how racism ties into it all.  Jose understood, but unfortunately the lesson just didn’t seem to sink in for Jemimah.  We are no longer friends.  To be clear, the split of friendship had less to do with the headdress and more to do with my preference for friends who can sit still for five minutes.