Reading at Big Island Bookfest!!
Please come by and say hello to me at Big Island Bookfest on Saturday October 22nd. I’ll be reading there too!
A Gold Satin Debra . . . wait . . . A Gold Satin Murder
I’m excited to introduce you to my friend and fellow mystery/crime writer, Debra Purdy Kong and her latest crime fiction. If I remember correctly, the “gold satin” has something to do with a thong. My my!
I met Debra a few years ago at a Crime Writers of Canada event and we went on to share the stage at readings and events. Debra’s a seasoned author who knows how to paint a scene and entice her audience into reading more. See the first scene teaser below.
Debra’s volunteer experiences, criminology diploma, and various jobs inspired her to write mysteries set in BC’s Lower Mainland. Her employment as a campus security patrol and communications officer provided the background for her Casey Holland transit security novels.
Debra has published short stories in a variety of genres as well as personal essays, and articles for publications such as Chicken Soup for the Bride’s Soul, B.C. Parent Magazine, and The Vancouver Sun. She is a facilitator for the Creative Writing Program through Port Moody Recreation and a long-time member of Crime Writers of Canada. She lives in British Columbia, Canada.
The Blurb:
Transit cop Casey Holland has never met a bus passenger like the charming artist and exotic dancer, Eduardo. The bus driver Lily has certainly befriended him. But when Eduardo’s charged with murder, Lily’s caught in the middle of his legal trouble. Afraid of losing her job and custody of her son, she begs Casey for help in proving Eduardo’s innocence.
Casey’s search for answers takes her and her best friend Kendal to a troupe of strippers known as Man Cave. While the men are busy peeling off their clothes, Casey’s peeling back layers of secrets and betrayal. Nuttier than her usual adventures, the risk is just as deadly in this seventh installment of the Casey Holland transit mysteries.
When I read the blurb for Debra’s latest Casey Holland novella, I was intrigued by the character Eduardo and the male strippers known as The Man Cave. I really think Eduardo needs to meet up with my protagonist, Estrada, and spend some time at Club Pegasus. Estrada would be happy to introduce Eduardo to beautiful women so he could leave his bus-hopping days behind. Anyway, I asked Debra to tell me about Eduardo.
Where did Eduardo come from and what was the inspiration for this book?
I wanted to create a character who’s relatively uncomplicated and positive, yet still interesting. Eduardo’s a composite of people I met while working as a campus security guard several years ago, although none of them were aspiring artists or part-time strippers, like Eduardo. Some were new immigrants who struggled with English. They were engineers, doctors, and dentists in their birth countries and doing whatever they could to pay the bills until they acquired Canadian accreditation. They were the sweetest, most respectful guys to work with. There were also a few coworkers who possessed a great deal of swagger and over-confidence in their abilities.
Those experiences reinforced a truth I’ve known for some time. There’s always much more to people than meets the eye, and not everyone’s motives are negative. Eduardo is flawed, but he’s also a happy, easygoing guy. He’s an artist, a professional escort, and a stripper. He loves his family and wouldn’t wish harm on anyone, which is why his arrest for murder baffles him.
I chose those jobs for Eduardo because it suits his character. It also creates a quirky, somewhat awkward situation for Casey and her husband Lou. In the previous books, Casey’s work as a security officer for a bus company has either evolved into or merged with serious and dangerous situations. I wanted to give her a bit of a break from that level of intensity while still investigating a crime. To be honest, I haven’t been to a real-life Chippendales-type show. A member of my writers’ group has, though, and she shared some great insights about female audiences. In my early twenties, my boyfriend at the time took me to see female strippers. As I recall, the male audience was exceptionally well-behaved compared with the women in my story. But as characters discover in A Gold Satin Murder (a novella), actions, in and out of the shows, have consequences
Are you intrigued? Do you want more?
Here are the buy and connect links. But scroll down for a little September gift from Debra and read the first scene!
Amazon: https://mybook.to/AGoldSatinMurder
Kobo Canada: https://www.kobo.com/ca/en/ebook/a-gold-satin-murder
Kobo U.S. https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/a-gold-satin-murder
Apple books: https://books.apple.com/us/book/id6443255297
Barnes & Noble: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-gold-satin-murder-debra-purdy-kong/1141951058?ean=2940166433930
Connect with Debra:
Blog: https://debrapurdykong.wordpress.com/
Newsletter: https://sendfox.com/debrapurdykong
Website: www.debrapurdykong.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DebraPurdyKong
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DebraPurdyKongAuthor
Email: dpurdykong@gmail.com
A Gold Satin Murder: Chapter 1
After a decade of security work for Mainland Public Transport, Casey Holland had learned that troublesome passengers were usually rude, loud, and poorly dressed. But the gorgeous, broad-shouldered man in the charcoal suit, white shirt, and bright red tie strutting down the aisle was a new, intriguing challenge.
The moment the man spotted Casey, he gave her a broad, toothy smile. Cool. Her silky, low-cut tank top and dangling crystal earrings were doing their job. Undercover assignments rarely involved dressing up, but passenger complaints about a hot guy who’d been badgering women to model for his paintings required a different fashion choice. Besides, the bus was way too warm this late-July evening. The less she had to wear the better.
Casey winked at the man, then tilted her head toward the empty seat next to her. He slowed his pace and nodded to the gaping middle-aged woman he passed by. Judging from a quick survey, the man had caught the attention of most passengers. The men didn’t look as impressed as the women, though.
“Hola, señorita.” Gold-flecked brown eyes glanced at her hands as he sat down. “I am Eduardo from Ecuador.”
“Casey. From Vancouver,” she replied. “How are ya?” To reveal she was a señora who’d been happily married for just over a year might put him off, so the wedding rings stayed home.
“Excelente.” He beamed. “I am here only three months, but I am in love with Vancouver. It has many interesting people.”
“That it does.” His cedarwood and vanilla cologne sent a jolt of nostalgia through Casey. When Dad was alive, she occasionally gave him a bottle of something similarly scented for Father’s Day. She sat up straighter and zeroed in on Eduardo. Not the time for reflection.
“I apologize if my English is not so good,” Eduardo said.
“It sounds fine to me.” She smiled. “Do you live in this part of the city?”
“Si. Only one block away. I love to walk and ride the buses and talk to people.”
He’d have many opportunities to do exactly that in Vancouver’s densely populated West End. Thanks to nearby Stanley Park, the popular English Bay beach, and many eateries, the area attracted tons of tourists as well as visitors from other areas of the Lower Mainland.
“Your eyes!” Eduardo slapped his hand over his heart. “La violeta. Extraordinario! I have not seen such a shade before. I am professional artista. May I paint you? It would be great honor! You are so be-eau-tiful.”
“Thank you.” Great honor and beautiful were the exact words two of the complainants had used in their written statements. “So, how many women have you approached about painting their portraits, especially while riding this bus?”
“Qué?” Eduardo’s smile faded. “Why do you ask me this?”
“I’m with Mainland Public Transport security.” She showed him her ID card. “We’ve had harassment complaints about you. One woman threatened to involve the police if it happened again.”
His eyes widened. “This cannot be.”
“The complaints said you wouldn’t take no for an answer until they either changed seats or left the bus.”
Eduardo sat back in his seat. “I am stupefied!”
Casey didn’t buy the naïve act. “Harassment of any type on MPT buses is against company policy.”
He fidgeted, not quite meeting her gaze. “I am just a single man who loves ladies and to create art.”
Eduardo produced a business card depicting an elegantly designed maple tree with crimson and tangerine leaves. But anyone could create a card and pass himself off as an artist.
“Is difficult to find models in new city. Art schools are filled up.” He frowned. “And many ladies choose to sit next to me and ask what I do to earn money.”
She believed him. Given the lusty stares a couple of women were tossing his way, Eduardo had probably found more than a few willing models and dates.
“Is it wrong to talk about art, or to ask a be-eau-tiful lady on a date? I might break bus rules, but I am not breaking real laws, no?”
Casey sighed. “Are you and I going to have a problem?”
He raised his hands, palms facing her. “I do not want trouble, but I must pursue my art.”
“Eduardo, the rules are there for a reason. They also give me the authority to kick you off any MPT bus if you’re breaking them.” Casey paused. “If you’re going to discuss portrait painting, then be clear about what you want. If you’re turned down, then I strongly advise you to leave the passenger alone. I assume you expect to be paid for your portraits?”
Eduardo nodded. “I do this not only for money but to find true soulmate.” He lowered his head. “I am not so lucky in love. Is heartbreaking road filled with big potholes.”
“Uh-huh.” She studied him. “Do you think you’ll find love on a bus?”
“I search everywhere.”’
Eduardo’s expression and demeanor seemed sincere, but she had her doubts about this guy.
“You must have tried dating apps,” she said.
“Si.” He grimaced. “They were not good. Is better to meet ladies in person.” He gave her a whimsical look. “Everywhere.”
Meaning he intended to keep chatting up women on MPT buses. Eduardo might be better looking and more polite than other rule breakers, but his resistant attitude was all too familiar. She’d be seeing him again, no doubt, and their second encounter wouldn’t be as cordial.
“Just be careful about what you say,” she cautioned. “Misunderstandings happen easily.”
The corners of Eduardo’s full, sensuous mouth turned down. “What shall I talk about? The boring weather? Is what others do.”
“Eduardo, buddy, unless someone speaks to you first, it might be best if you didn’t talk at all.”
25th Anniversary: On Coming to Live in Beautiful B.C.
This is a true story.
Twenty-five years ago today, on July 10, 1997, we left our home in Ontario for a new life in British Columbia.
At the time, I was working as a domestic abuse counsellor in a transition house in Oshawa, Ontario. Bethesda House is still there, helping women and children find their way through a tumultuous time. I’d graduated with my B.A. in Indigenous Studies in 1995, worked as a sexual assault counsellor at a Rape Crisis Centre, and then been hired at Bethesda House. But I was done with Ontario. The hot summers. The snowy winters. Freezing pipes and terrifying drives through icy roads. Bad weather and worse boyfriends. When I stopped feeling my fingers in winter, I knew I had to go.
I had no job and no idea where we’d live in British Columbia, but I had one friend on the Sunshine Coast and another in the Kootenays. I’d been accepted at UBC, and thought maybe I’d become a teacher.
My daughter had graduated from grade 8 that year and was starting high school. What better time to begin an adventure?
Fortunately, I jotted down a few notes in a journal as we drove West, like so many have done before us, and continue to do today. My daughter was fourteen, and we had Riley with us, our six-month-old border collie. Our friend, Dave, helped us pack the U-Haul trailer. I’ll never forget those puffins on the side! Dave helped us hitch it to my old white Cavalier station wagon. We looked something like this.
Everything we owned we packed in that trailer, but left our camping gear in the back of the wagon. I’d found a campground close to Vancouver—Anmore Campground near Buntzen Lake. That X on the map was our destination.
I’d never hauled a trailer and had no idea how to back it up, so we drove the whole way going forward. Except for this one time when I drove to the top of a hill and then realized I was on a dead end road. Somehow, I turned us around jack-knifing, cursing, and praying all the while. The following is taken from my 1997 journal.
Thursday July 10. We drove off at 6am and landed at the Queensway Motel in Espanola (between Sudbury and Sault Ste. Marie) at 3:30pm — $40/night. 486 km and $16.00 for gas.
Friday July 11. We left Espanola at 6am and crossed the border into Michigan at 9:30 am. By 8pm, we’d arrived in Wakefield. 13 hours. 733 km and $16.00 for gas. I wrote: “The country along the South Superior shore is beautiful. We swam in Superior between Munising and Marquette. Gorgeous sandy beaches, but the water is freezing!”
Saturday July 12. We left Wakefield, Michigan at 6am and drove through two whole states: Wisconsin and Minnesota. I loved the land, the national parks, and later set a novel right there in central Minnesota near the Leech Lake Reservation—LURE. We arrived in Grand Forks, North Dakota around 4pm. 10 hours. 635 km and $23.50 for gas. I wrote: “Yikes. Prairie rain. We drove through two hours of hard rain storms but tonight is very hot and humid. More thunderstorms expected.”
Sunday July 13. We left Grand Forks at 6:30am and drove to Williston, North Dakota (which is almost Montana). We arrived at the Select Inn at 3pm. 8.25 hours. 546 km and $20.50 for gas. I wrote: “Ran rainclouds and learned to read a prairie sky. Yeah! They have a pool! We ate supper at a cool place called Trappers Kettle.” Aha. It’s still there and still cool.
Monday July 14. We left Williston at 6:15am, changed time zones again, and arrived in Laurel (just past Billings) Montana at 3:30pm. It was sunny & 90 degrees F. We were just too frazzled to go on. 615 km and $19.50 for gas. We stayed at the Welcome Travelers Motel. I wrote: “Miles and miles of rangeland dotted with cows and horses. We passed deer and pheasants on the road.”
Tuesday July 15. At 6am, we left Laurel Montana. We drove through the Rocky Mountains all through Montana and Idaho. Yellowstone Country! We almost didn’t make it to the top of Lookout Pass in Montana, and the Fourth of July Pass in Idaho was terrifying—driving in 3rd gear, 20mph to the top. We landed in Sprague, Washington at 7pm as we stopped to shop in Butte, Montana. 14 hours. 913 km. I think I was too freaked out to check the gas! I remember that Sprague was a one-silo town and I had the creeps. We stayed at the Purple Sage Motel (now closed) and I hid my purse in the bed with me that night. This Capital I Introvert was starting to lose her mind.
Wednesday July 16. A HORRIBLE HORRIBLE DAY. We left Sprague and drove through the Cascade Mountains. As we drove up the pass, my temperature gauge glowed red and as we hurtled down the other side it slipped back into the green. It was blistering hot but I kept my foot on the gas.
We drove through Seattle at noon and arrived at Canada Customs at 2pm. As we were sitting in the lineup at the Peace Arch, I smelled something burning. “I hope that’s not us,” I said to Tara. Then we saw smoke wafting out the hood of the wagon. I’d toasted the thermostat and the fan. The motor ran out of coolant and the car overheated. The border guard took one look at us and waved us on. “Just go,” he said. “Just keep going.” We drove through White Rock spewing coolant. Some nice guys helped us out at Crescent Service Station where we got a new thermostat installed. Still, we overheated all the way through New Westminster. I hated driving through New West, and I still do to this day! We finally arrived at the Sleepy Lodge Motel in Coquitlam at 8pm. Riley ate some rotten bone out back and had diarrhea all over the disgusting gold shag rug! I wrote: “Oh yeah. I got my period too.”
Thursday July 17. We unpacked the trailer at the U-Haul Storage in Port Moody and got the fan fixed at Canadian Tire. From Sprague Washington to Port Moody 695 km.
And then we got a fantastic camping spot in the overflow area at Anmore Campground near Buntzen Lake. We pitched the tent and crawled into our sleepings bags for the very first time. $22/night. We’d finally made it to that little X on the map.
Ironically, I ended up living and teaching in Port Moody for most of the next twenty-five years, though I never went to UBC. On Saturday July 19, we drove down Hastings Street and right through downtown Vancouver. I wrote: “Scary. Chaotic. Too many people. Too little space. No UBC.” At the time, I knew nothing about the Downtown Eastside, and the people we saw there in the streets that Saturday morning. On the way back to Port Moody, we decided to try and find a beach. I mean, we were finally at the West Coast and hadn’t found the ocean yet! I looked at the map and chose Wreck Beach which, unbeknownst to us at the time, is the most famous nude beach in Vancouver. Right about then, we realized we rural Ontario girls were just not ready for Vancouver life.
I was destroyed! I thought I’d made a huge mistake and was considering going back to Ontario. I called my friend, Jackie, who lives in Kaslo (the Kootenay Mountains) and asked if we could stay at her place for a few days while I figured out what to do. It didn’t look far on the map (just over an inch) but 13 hours later, I was driving through the Rockies, covering my view of the drop-off cliffs, and crying, “I can’t do this!” I told Jackie I’d never drive to her place again along the Crow’s Nest highway, and I never have. I love you Jackie, but mountains to flatlanders are like traversing another planet. Jackie calmed me down, and while we were visiting, we found our first basement suite in Burnaby at Canada Way and 10th Avenue. I discovered SFU on Burnaby Mountain, and so our new lives began.
We had great times at Anmore Campground and, years later, I set my Hollystone Mystery series at Buntzen Lake. We camped for about three weeks and, after that, my daughter refused to camp with me ever again! Though I think I still have that old blue cooler.
In all, we travelled 4,258 km in 7 days—me, my 14-year-old daughter, and our 6-month-old border collie puppy.
No regrets. If we’d stayed in Ontario our lives would be someone else’s lives. We wouldn’t be the people we are today. We wouldn’t know the people we know today. And oh, the experiences we would have missed.
Thoughts on Texturizing your Fiction
This is a wonderful article for any writer, and especially an author of historical fiction. Sharpen your quills. You’ll be inspired. I promise. Thanks to Deborah L. Williams for her expertise.
Bringing History to Life
This book starts halfway through the ten-book Marc Edwards Mysteries series. I chose to read it first because it’s set in Upper Canada 1838, and I’m sliding into that time myself to do some historical research for a family history. Published in 2013 by Touchstone, the series is written by poet, author, and Western University professor emeritus, Don Gutteridge.
The story is set at a key historic moment when two Canadas are struggling for power: predominantly French Lower Canada (Quebec) and very British Upper Canada (Ontario). Rebellions have disturbed the peace in both.
A Little Political Background
Louis-Joseph Papineau, a French-Canadian reformer born in Montreal, led the rebel Patriotes in a rebellion in November 1837. They opposed the power of the Catholic Church, the British Governor, and his advisors, the Chateau Clique. After the Patriotes were defeated, many French-Canadian settlements were burned to the ground, and Papineau fled into exile in the United States. Fleeing to the USA is a popular theme especially in the old days when borders were a little less guarded.
The following month, a Scottish newspaper publisher, William Lyon Mackenzie, and his radical followers attempted to seize control of the government in Upper Canada and declare the colony a republic. As in Lower Canada, an elite clique of pro-British businessmen called the Family Compact, ran the colony through a system of patronage. The rebels wanted democracy. Many of them were American farmers who’d moved north following the War of 1812. For four days, Mackenzie and his rebels gathered at Montgomery’s Tavern, then they marched south on Toronto’s Yonge Street. Guns were fired. Confusion ensued, and they dispersed. Perhaps spending four days convening in a tavern was not the wisest plan? Mackenzie and his group eventually fled to the United States where they joined with American rebels and wreaked havoc along the border.
By the following summer, Britain still ruled from across the sea, the cliques still ran both Canadas—one French, one English—and problems still hung in the air.
What About These Bloody Relations?
Enter Lord Durham. John George Lambton Durham was made governor general to both Upper and Lower Canada, and sent abroad to sort things out and write a report. The earl was nicknamed “Radical Jack” because he swayed to the liberal side of the Whig party. In the end, Durham recommended union of the Canadas, assimilation of French Canadians, and the introduction of responsible government—an elected assembly responsible to the people, rather than a top-down monarchy. The real Lord Durham was a somewhat sickly character. Gutteridge says: “Lord and Lady Durham did visit Toronto for a day and a half in July 1838, their stay cut short by the earl’s suffering a recurrence of his migraine and neuralgia.”
It’s during Lord Durham’s visit to Toronto in July 1838 that Bloody Relations takes place. I mention the political background because it is important to the plot of the story and Durham’s report changed Canada forever.
As I said, this is a murder mystery, so early on a sort of “locked-room murder” occurs in a brothel in Irishtown. Lord Durham’s shy, inebriated, nephew, Handford Ellice, is discovered snuggled in bed beside poor dead Sarah McConkey. He’s still unconscious, though she’s been stabbed through the neck. And, he’s holding the knife in his hand. Madame Renee had barred the outside door after Ellice was admitted and then gone off to bed along with the three other women who worked for her. So, inside the locked brothel are three prostitutes, the madame, and Ellice. The key questions? Who done it? And why are there no blood trails if it wasn’t Ellice?
While on patrol, Constable Horatio Cobb is called to the bloody murder scene by one of the distraught prostitutes. When he realizes who the alleged perpetrator is related to, he suggests that Marc Edwards handle the rather sensitive investigation. Marc and his wife, Beth, have just been to a soiree the previous evening with Lord and Lady Durham and met Ellice; in fact, Beth danced with the shy Ellice and befriended him. Now, he’s accused of murder and the Edwards are determined to get to the truth. Edwards feel that Ellice may have been set up to derail Lord Durham’s task.
It’s a brilliant set-up for a murder mystery and Gutteridge’s literary prose, combined with his poetic prowess and believable dialogue, brings the characters to life. The settings are vivid, especially Irishtown:
“The area was essentially a squatter’s haven. Its three dozen dwellings were ramshackle affairs at best: half-log shanties, clapboard hovels, temporary lean-tos confected out of the handiest scraps and flotsam of the town they appended, as welcome as a carbuncle on a buttock” (31).
I grew up just east of Toronto and worked downtown during my late teens so am familiar with many of the streets and locations: Yonge, Bay, Queen, College Park, Osgoode Hall. And I remember being threatened with ending up on Jarvis Street, the domain of prostitutes, if I didn’t mend my ways.
Murdoch Mysteries is set in Toronto fifty years later, but fans of the constabulary would enjoy the Marc Edwards Mysteries. There’s a similarity in the type of murders, the characters themselves, their speech, and behaviour.
My Research
I hadn’t thought about the effect of politics on my characters until reading this novel. Now, I’m left wondering what it would be like for a common French carpenter and his Irish wife and children to live in Cobourg, a small harbour town in Northumberland County, just east of Toronto, in these Tory-dominated days.
What were their political leanings? Did they support the radicals? Perhaps, want to join the throng of three thousand who came to Queen’s Wharf to meet Lord and Lady Durham’s steamer? After all, Antoine Fusee had married his fourteen-year-old bride (Louisa McNally) in Montreal only three years prior (1835). Or would they keep quiet and submit to Tory rule? Were they merely concerned with subsistence and survival? Was it even safe to be French in Upper Canada?
As for the Marc Edwards Mysteries, I think I must read them all. Don Gutteridge is a find.
Elements of Indigenous Style. Gregory Younging
The subtitle of Elements of Indigenous Style is A Guide for Writing By and About Indigenous Peoples. I read this book to learn what is appropriate and what is not, as the two fiction books I’m now writing include references to Indigenous Peoples and are set on Indigenous territory. After reading, I made revisions to my manuscript. Younging wrote this edition in 2018, so it may already need updating as, in Canada especially, much is changing rapidly with regard to how Indigenous and non-Indigenous people work together. I highly recommend this book to writers, editors, students, and anyone interested in reconciliation; in fact, we all should read it because we are in relationship with Indigenous People and need to be much more aware. I’m not re-writing the book here, just providing a sampling and speaking to a few key points.
Naming
Merging the name of his Cree mother (Young) and his Chinese father (Ing), Younging forged his own identity. I appreciate this, as I created my own name, Hawkin. It means “kin of hawks” and expressed my need for freedom following my divorce. I was neither my father’s daughter nor my ex-husband’s wife, but was searching for self. I identified strongly with the hawks who lived nearby in Ontario and still identify with birds of prey.
About Gregory Younging
Younging died in May 2019 at the age of fifty-eight, and was posthumously awarded the Association of Canadian Publishers President’s Award. You can read more about his achievements here. He was a member of the Opaskwayak Cree Nation in northern Manitoba, and managing editor/publisher of Theytus Books in Penticton, British Columbia, for many years. Theytus Books was the first Indigenous-owned publishing house in Canada and continues to publish Indigenous authors. Gregory Younging also taught at UBC Okanagan and served as assistant director of research to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada.
As I said, I learned much from this book. He includes appendixes, case studies, and twenty-two principles of style. Here are a few key points to consider that struck me.
Characteristics of Contemporary Indigenous Literature
Contemporary Indigenous Literature gives authority to all voices rather than one; as well as the voices of animals, and messages given by spirits and natural phenomenon; and it crosses circular time—ancient past, present, future. These characteristics come from the work of Anishinaabe author, Kim Blaeser (13).
Protocols for working in Collaboration
Non-Indigenous authors, or, Indigenous authors writing about a nation that is not their own, should enter into a relationship with that source nation, get permission, and negotiate mutually agreeable terms. Younging stresses collaboration and the need to always ask in an appropriate way. For example, when I studied at Trent University, the Protocol was to respectfully offer tobacco to an Elder or Teacher if you wanted to ask a question. If the person accepted it, they could help, and you had permission to engage. Younging writes that the Protocol is still to ask respectfully and offer a gift, but tobacco might not be the right gift. You need to find out what’s appropriate by asking around the community or asking the Elder. Then listen. Finally, give them the right to read your text before publication.
Awareness of Sources
I appreciate the chapter on terminology because much of this has changed since I studied in the nineties. Also, in some classes, we used texts written by archaeologists or anthropologists who viewed Indigenous Peoples as static cultures of a distant past. That is not the case. Indigenous Cultures are resilient, adaptive, dynamic, and distinct. If you use content published by anthropologists or historians be aware that the author likely did not follow Protocols, and translations often use stereotypical language and concepts. For example, the anthropological theory that Indigenous Peoples migrated across the Bering Strait to North America is not part of The Oral Traditions of The People.
Terminology to use and not to use
A few words to be wary of using are artifact, band (use the People), clan (unless it’s a particular Clan System, pagan/heathen, land claim (use Indigenous title), legends/myths/tales (use Oral Traditions), self-government (use self-determination). Aboriginal is an adjective only and is being replaced by Indigenous.
Many words in our everyday vocabulary are of Indigenous origin, though we assume they’re English. Here’s a partial list: canoe, hammock, igloo, kayak, potato, raccoon, skunk, squash, tomato. Also many place names have Indigenous origin including the provinces of Manitoba and Saskatchewan. Alternatively, explorers and settlers renamed places after themselves or their foreign sovereign (investor) in many cases as a means of claiming territory for the colonizing country.
First Nations, Inuit, and Métis
In Canada, the government recognizes “First Nations, Inuit, and Métis.” First Nations is a political term that refers to someone from a First Nation. Inuit means “The People” and refers to The People who live in the Arctic. Métis is both a noun (she is Métis) and adjective (Métis heritage). The term Métis is complex as it has three possible meanings.
1) Métis means “mixed race” in French and refers to those who were involved in the Red River Resistance and their descendents. They may speak French, English, and/or Michif. Note it’s termed the Red River Resistance, not rebellion.
2) Someone may identify as Metis (without accent) if they are English-speaking people of mixed Indigenous and non-Indigenous ancestry. For example, my great grandfather’s father was Dutch and his mother was Tuscarora (a nation who moved north and were adopted into the Haudenosaunee).
3) Métis (with accent) can also be used by those who do not descend from Red River.
Use of Traditional Names
Use Traditional Names that The People use to refer to their distinct nation—Anishinaabe, Haudenosaunee, Nuu’chah’nulth, Mi’Kmaq, Gitxsan, and so on. Younging writes: “Names are part of the way we render identity” (91). Be particular and precise. Many of us acknowledge the name of the Traditional Territory on which we’ve settled and use it in our email signature: Settled on unceded Stó:lō territory—Ts’elxwéyeqw (Chilliwack) and Se:máth (Sumas) tribes
Capitalization
Indigenous style uses capital letters where non-Indigenous writers/editors may not—Survivor, Chief, Clan, Elder, Indigenous Voice, the Longhouse as an institution, Midewiwin, Oral Tradition, Seven Fires, Sundance, Sweat Lodge, Vision Quest, Warrior Society, Wampum Belt, Traditional Knowledge. I see this as a positive way of showing honour and respect.
Possession
The Dispossessed: Life and Death in Native Canada by Geoffrey York was one of the first books I read, and it’s always stuck with me. York was a journalist with the Globe and Mail in Toronto. He wrote about the legacy of abuses from land grabs, to diseases, to residential schools, to reserve land that afforded The People little to nothing. They were dispossessed of their land and culture. They are now reclaiming, so when you’re writing, it’s important not to imply Indigenous Peoples are “owned” or “possessed” by Euro-colonial states. They are not Canada’s Indigenous Peoples. Also, use present tense rather than past. The Nuu’chah’nulth potlatch or hold potlatches, not the Nuu’chah’nulth held potlatches.
Younging’s guide is political. It’s complex and much to absorb. As a former high school English teacher, I suggest this book be used in humanities classes. Younging has titled this book with an obvious poke at Elements of Style, an American English writing style guide written by William Strunk Jr. in 1918, that’s still used by high school and university students. It’s time to change it up and expand our awareness of how language informs thought and thought informs language, as both inform culture and cultural prejudices. Even those of a subtle kind.