Halfway through the first week of the semester, I boarded a plane to Calgary to attend the 2019 Sevengen Indigenous Student Energy Summit. The purpose of the summit was to raise awareness about the challenges and opportunities in Canada’s transition to sustainable energy, specifically from the perspective of Indigenous youth and elders.

For me and many other attendees, the summit was an emotional experience. It wasn’t just a conference about environmental sustainability and climate change; it was about bringing people together from all over and creating a sense of community filled with insight and laughter. Many Indigenous people have a strong belief that everything is connected, so even though the summit was about clean energy and food sustainability, we discussed issues within our communities such as the issue of Missing & Murdered Indigenous Women, substance abuse, the loss of language and culture, residential schools, and how these all affect our perception of our own identities.

After the summit ended, I wanted to expand my knowledge of indigenous issues. I specifically wanted to start researching about the fusion of indigenous ways of knowing and traditional Western science, since I am a lover of both. I started reading “Braiding Sweetgrass” by Robin Wall Kimmerer, which discusses just that. She is from the Potawatomi nation, a native American nation in the Great Plains region, yet I noticed a lot of similarities between our cultures. She begins the book with the Creation story; the story of Sky Woman falling.

Karonhia:ke, The Sky World, was home to our most ancient ancestors, the Sky People. There was a sacred tree that grew in the center of that world, which the people were instructed not to disturb. One day, a pregnant woman began digging at its base so she could harvest the roots to make tea. She dug too deep and a hole was created in the floor of the Skyworld and she fell through while peering down into the unknown. As she fell, she was carried onto the back of a large turtle by a pair of geese. With the help of the animals, soil, and some seeds and roots she managed to grab from the Tree as she fell, she created the land we now walk on. This why many indigenous nations refer to North America as “Turtle Island”. The first plants to grow were sweetgrass, tobacco, sage, and cedar; our sacred medicines. Sweetgrass is believed to be the first to grow of these plants, and symbolizes the hair of mother earth. The strong, sweet fragrance is used as a ceremonial tool. Our memories are strongest when they are associated with our olfactory senses, so smelling sweetgrass is a way we remember our history.

The story of Skywoman’s journey is important in our culture because it holds our beliefs, our history, and our relationship with nature, all in one. Her story is used as guide for living. The way each person lives is unique and the way society should act changes with time. For Skywoman, these Original Instructions meant  respecting hunting, family life, and ceremonies that made sense for her time. To quote Kimmerer herself: “Children hearing the sky woman story from birth know in their bones the responsibility that flows between humans and the Earth” (5). The creation of our world, from the Iroquois perspective, was the result of human beings cooperating and interacting positively with nature. For example, sweetgrass. This plant is best planted not by seed, but by placing the roots directly into the ground. Even more so, the grass grows longest and most fragrant when it’s tended to by humans.

As I grew older and transferred to school off-reserve, I was exposed to other creation stories, like that of Genesis. I noticed striking similarities between the stories of Skywoman and Eve, and I couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps our story was influenced or even changed by the early colonizers. Kimmerer compares Eve and Skywoman’s journeys and explains how they couldn’t be more different. Throughout human history, cosmologies are a source of identity and orientation to the world. Once again, Kimmerer explains this concept better than I ever could: “One story leads to the generous embrace of the living world, the other to banishment. One woman is our ancestral gardener, a co-creator of the good green world that would be the home of her descendants . The other was an exile, just passing through an alien world on a rough road to her heaven” (7).

One of the most important aspects of the story is that Skywoman did not come to this world alone. She knew her children and grandchildren would inherit the world after she passed, so she worked to create a world that would prosper for generations to come. Through her actions of reciprocity with the land, it is said that that’s when the original immigrant became indigenous; to live as if your children’s futures mattered.

In Western ways of knowing, there is a hierarchy of beings on Earth. Humans at the very top, and the plants and animals at the bottom. In the Indigenous worldview however, human beings are referred to as the Brothers of creation. We have the least amount of experience with how to live so therefore we have the most to learn. This is why many indigenous cultures refer to the plants and animals as our teachers. For example, the dragonfly. This insect is the greatest flyer in nature. They can hover, fly backwards, and even upside down. Using high speed cameras, researchers can see how these creatures work, and try to imitate them, which can lead to advancements in drone production for a variety of applications.

Kimmerer recalls a day in one of her ecology classes when she gave the students a survey. She asked them to rate their understanding of the negative interactions between humans and the environment. All of her 200 students said it’s a bad mix. Next, she asked them to rate their understanding of the positive interactions between humans and the environment. The median response was “none”. She remembers thinking “How can we begin to move towards ecological and cultural sustainability if we cannot even imagine what that path feels like? If we can’t imagine the generosity of geese? These students were not raised on the story of Sky woman” (6).

Coming back to the conference I attended, SevenGen addresses this division between nature and man.The name SevenGen was inspired by two things; a prophecy and a philosophy. The prophecy of the Lakota people was spoken by a holy man who predicted that the seventh generation of his people would be the ones to bring about and lead change. Since his starting point was the arrival of the white man in the mid 19th century, the indigenous youth of today are that generation. The Seventh Generation Principle is based on the ancient Iroquoian philosophy that the decisions we make today should result in a sustainable world seven generations into the future. This principle was so important to my people that it was codified in the

In 1987, United States Senate even acknowledged that the Great Law of Peace of the Iroquois Nations served as a model for the Constitution of the United States. And since the U.S. Constitution was a model for the charter of the United Nations, the Iroquois Great Law of Peace is also a basis of international law.The only parts of the Great Law of Peace that the founding fathers didn’t incorporate, includes that of the seventh generation principle.

Overall, I felt that the conference I attended was important because it inspired me to continue my pursuit of knowledge of combining the traditional sciences with the indigenous ways of knowing . The conference also led me to discover “Braiding Sweetgrass” which showed how to bridge that gap and evoke a sense of hope for a way forward through tradition teachings, modern science, and community.

References: Kimmerer, R. W. (2013). Braiding sweetgrass: Indigenous wisdom, scientific knowledge and the teachings of plants. Minneapolis, MN: Milkweed Editions.

Memory is a survival mechanism that has evolved in all kinds of living organism. For humans, it allows us to remember and apply skills we have learned, navigate our physical surroundings, and divert us from harm’s way. Paul Reber, a professor of psychology at Northwestern University, quantified the memory capacity of the human brain. He estimated that human beings can store the digital equivalent of 2.5 petabytes of information, or one million gigabytes. As insightful as this comparison is, it is limited by the fact that the way the human brain creates and stores memories is vastly different from that of a computer.

Simply put, memories are created when one neuron stimulates another neuron repeatedly. During recollection, the brain becomes more familiar with the specific pathway of the signal from neuron-to-neuron, making the cells more sensitive to each other and more ready to fire in the same way in the future. This is essentially the process of memorization.The pathways are more likely to be remembered when they are created in associating with strong emotions, since more neurons are involved in the process. As a result, recalling memories can induce the same feelings felt during the event, whether good or bad.

The drawback of our ability to remember, is when we remember things that we do not want to. In his book “Untimely Meditations” , Friedrich Nietzsche contemplates memory and its influence over one’s well being by comparing man to animal.  A cow lives its life with a sense of unhistoricality, that is, with little to no consideration of the past and its burdens. The cow is mindful and fully present and consequently, in a happier state of being. In contrast, humans live their lives with a strong sense of historicality. Man is tormented by painful memories of the past, in a constant state of rumination. Nietzsche implies that the key to happiness is to live life in the middle of these perspectives. To be completely unhistorical is to forgo the value of memory in terms of knowledge and wisdom and their relation to history. As painful as memories can be, they teach us important lessons about life and ourselves. However, to be completely historical is to prohibit oneself from moving forward and feeling at peace with the realities of the past.

Michael Goudry’s film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind explores the potential implications and consequences of memory-erasing technology. The procedure advertises itself as away to relieve the everyday person of the burdens of their past for the sake of emotional growth. As the movie progresses, it becomes clear that the procedure instead seems to do the opposite. Memories are one of the few things that make individual human beings unique. Biochemically, we are all comprised of the same elements. We bleed the same blood and and feel the same instincts, but what we experience throughout our lifetime is what creates diversity. Every single event of our life, big or small, good or bad, shapes us into who we are, whether we are conscious of it or not. That being so, the act of erasing a portion of a person’s memory is an act of erasing a part of their identity. It prevents you from learning from your mistakes and growing.

However, not everything is in black and white. As technology advances and the possibility of memory erasure becomes increasingly probable, there are a variety of situations in which this treatment can be considered a genuine solution. For people who suffer from trauma, anxiety, addiction, and phobias, eradicating their ability to recall unpleasant memories may be their only way to achieve, to some extent, a state of unhistoricality. If in our society people have the right to do what they want with their bodies, why should they be forced to relive experiences that are so awful, many of us cannot even imagine, for the sake of “self-preservation”?

Some of the earliest memories of my life are ones where I am completely immersed in nature. Whether I was turning over decaying logs to uncover hidden centipedes, hand crafting mud pies with my sister, or collecting clay in the nearby streams with my neighbour, I was constantly surrounded by the elements. Most people of my generation can probably relate to these experiences. My childhood however, most likely differed from that of my classmates in that I grew up on a First Nations reservation.

The role of nature in my life is therefore difficult for me to summarize in a single word or sentence. It is more than just the occasional rejuvenating weekend of camping, as is for many city folks. Instead, it brings me a sense of peace and tranquility when my mind is weighed down by the burden of academic or personal stress. It makes me feel connected to my ancestors, knowing that I am surrounded by the same trees that they once planted, or that I am walking on the same field that they once tread. It makes me feel wholesome and healthy when I feed by body and soul with strawberry juice and the Three Sisters; corn, beans, and squash. It makes me feel calm when I am barefoot in the soil of my backyard garden, harvesting sweetgrass to dry out and braid later on in the season. It makes me feel alive to stand outside in the pouring rain and to breathe in the fresh air after being cooped up in the house all day. It makes me feel clean when I open up the windows of my room to let in the crisp air of the outside. It makes me feel like time has stopped when I am sitting in a mound of snow and listening to the silence of the season. Reservations in Canada get a bad reputation for being dangerous, dirty, and unkept. For us locals however, there is nothing more comforting than coming back home from a long day in the city to the sight of white pine and the familiar scents of a fire, cedar, sage, and tobacco.

As I write this piece, I am reminded of my youth spent at the local elementary school. Before any of our classes commenced, we would gather every morning in The Circle Room. There we would say aloud in unison, the “Ohén:ton Karihwatéhkwen  Atenonhweratónhtshera” in our traditional language. It begins with us thanking the Creator, Father Sky, and Mother Earth for providing us with everything we need to survive. Each subsequent verse gives thanks to a specific component of nature which has sustained our people for generations. With the aid of visual cues, we would express our gratitude for the waters, medicinal plants, insects, animal life, rain, and everything in between. These teachings of respect towards life in all forms made me very conscious of my impact on the environment from a very young age.

Once I turned eight years old, my siblings and I began attending school off reserve. As grateful as I am for acquiring a better French and scientific education as a result of the transfer, I cannot help but feel disadvantaged. The time I spent away from my land and culture left me with a loss of identity as an Indigenous person. Without the frequent practicing, I completely lost my ability to recite the thanksgiving address, or better yet, speak the language at all. The knowledge I gained with a Western education, as enriching and practical as it was, was knowledge I lost of who I was as a Haudenosaunee being.

 What worries me the most about the future is when I attend University; an institution that is very far and very different from home. For many people, leaving home to pursue one’s education or career is simply a coming-of-age moment. For many First Nations people however, leaving home is an emotionally tolling experience for a multitude of reasons. When you leave your reservation, you’re leaving your longhouse, your people, and your land; things you have been surrounded by your whole life in close proximity. As with many other Indigenous cultures, our entire worldview is based off our kinship with nature and recognizing that we share this land with all kinds of living organisms. In my experience, Western knowledge and academic institutions tend to overlook this perspective. My people have been stewards of this land for a long time before the colonizers arrived. I think it is time people start realizing the value of our knowledge; we are worthy of more than a mere portion of a chapter in Canada’s history.

Some of the earliest memories of my life are ones where I am completely immersed in nature. Turning over decaying logs to uncover hidden centipedes, hand crafting mud pies with my sister, collecting clay in the nearby streams, picking flowers for my mom; the list goes on. Most people of my generation can probably relate to these experiences. My childhood however, most likely differed from that of my classmates in that I grew up on a first nations reservation.

At the local elementary school, before any of our classes commenced, we would gather every morning in The Circle Room. There we would say aloud in unison the “Ohén:ton Karihwatéhkwen  Atenonhweratónhtshera” in our language. It begins with us thanking the Creator, Father Sky, and Mother Earth for providing us with everything we need. Each subsequent verse gives thanks to a specific component of nature, which has sustained our people for generations, such as the waters, medicinal plants, insects, animal life, rain, and everything in between. These teachings of respect and gratitude towards life in all forms made me very conscious of my impact in the world from a very young age.

Once I turned eight, my siblings and I began attending school off reserve. As grateful as I am for getting a better french and scientific education by switching schools, the time I spent away from my land and culture left me with a loss of identity as an Indigenous person. Without the frequent practicing, I completely lost my ability to recite the thanksgiving address, or better yet, speak the language at all. The knowledge I gained with a Western education, as enriching and practical as it was, was knowledge I lost of who I was as a Haudenosaunee person.

What worries me the most about the future is when I go off to university; an institution that is very far from home. For many people, leaving home to pursue one’s education or career is simply a coming of age moment. For many First nations people however, leaving home is an emotionally tolling experience for a multitude of reasons. When you leave your reservation, you’re leaving your longhouse, your people, and your land, things you have been surrounded by your whole life. As with many indigenous peoples, our entire worldview is based off our kinship with nature and recognizing that we share this land with all kinds of living organisms.

The role of nature in my life is therefore more than just an occasional rejuvenating weekend of camping, as for many city folks. It brings me a sense of peace and tranquility when my mind is weighed down by the burden of stress. It makes me feel connected to my ancestors, knowing that I am surrounded by the same trees that they once planted, or walking on the the same field that they once tread. It makes me feel wholesome and healthy when I feed by body and soul with strawberry juice and the Three Sisters; corn, beans, and squash. It makes me feel calm when I am barefoot in the soil of my family’s garden, or harvesting sweetgrass to dry out and braid later in the season. It makes me feel alive to stand outside in the pouring rain and to breathe in the fresh air after being cooped up in the house all day. It makes me feel clean when I open up the windows of my room to let in the crisp air of the outside. It makes me feel like time has stopped when I am sitting in a mound of snow and listening to the silence the season creates.

Reservations in Canada get a bad rep for being dangerous, dirty, and unkept. For the locals however, there is nothing more comforting than coming back home from a long day in the city to the sight of white pine and the familiar smell of a fire, cedar, sage, and tobacco. I suppose that is the role of nature in my life; comfort.

Thanks for joining me!

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton