Skip to content

Whose Slave Are We?

Friends, I am heartened to know that at least one person, News/North’s James O’Connor, is actually calling for action on something that should have been done some time ago.

In his column last week ("Time to abolish colonial nomenclature, Aug. 21), he points to the matter of names, citing the rather large elephant – or moose, in our northern case, in the room – the use and overuse of the word "slave," as in Great Slave Lake, which is Tu Nedhe, in Chipewyan Dene.

I previously wrote a column on this issue a while ago and gave it the title of "The greatest Slavey of all." It was on how we tend to reward the natives who best symbolize our idea of northern society.

As in many of the things I point out, yes, it does get printed, with a growing number of people reading it. But any kind of a response is an entirely different matter, like the veggies that still sit on your plate as you become full.

The problem of using words like slave or Slavey, to even define people in our modern day, is leftover from an age, that of colonization, which we claim is a part of the past.

What we don’t realize is that, this is exactly the way the process of knowingly replacing your host’s culture works. Now we even have Dene proudly pointing to themselves, as Slavey, not even knowing there were no such people, the name having been stamped by French traders or missionaries.

And, yes, we do have a long way to go.

Only a few years ago there was even a well meaning, but half-hearted push to change the name of the NWT, to better define ourselves.

The best we could do with the name we already have, Denendeh, was favored by most who bothered at all. Beyond ridiculous, but what passes for Mola – white man humour.

As a native northerner I am personally offended that the most people can do in my Dene language is to say "mahsi," for "thank you." This also assumes that most ‘northerners’ already expect something in return for whatever this interaction implies.

This also suggests that we Dene and Inuvialiut in the Western Arctic are content with the way things are.

I am also reminded of a chapter, Bobble-headed Me, in my upcoming book, which describes the country and western music we invariable are subjected to every time we go to a smaller community.

I feel exactly like one of those bottom-weighted rubber toys.

You punch him in the nose and down he goes, but only long enough for the next dismal country tune to come back on and up I am, ready for another chin-chuck.

All I can say for now is that we have to put a stop to this, and move on as decent human beings. Mahsi, thank you.