The p word

When I was in Grade Two, we did a Social Studies unit on "Indians".  This was before the terms "Indigenous" and "First Nations".  I think it's safe to say that our teachers didn't know any better.

It was a time when the residential schools were still in operation, and little boys played "Cowboys and Indians".

On a special project day, we came to school dressed as "Indians".  I lived in Edmonton, so the emphasis was on Plains "Indians".  My mother fixed me up with one of my soft dolls bundled and strapped to my back.  One of the boys punched it in the face as a joke.

That's the last time I recall hearing the word "papoose".

Last night, I came across an essay on the BBC web site, under, of all things, the "Entertainment and Arts" section, presumably because the author, Mark Savage, is a music columnist. 

This piece was about the increasingly legendary Queue that stretches from Westminster Hall, where the Queen's body lies in state, to Southwark Park on the south bank of the Thames, a distance of just under five miles. 

Savage writes of the peaceful atmosphere emanating from the live telecast of the Lying in State, and says he often leaves the livestream on, while doing things around his home. He speaks warmly about the people passing through the hall on either side of the catafalque, remarking on spotting many masks.  (I've seen about half a dozen masks amongst the thousands of people, but then, I don't keep the telecast on for long periods.)

And it was when he described the many types of people passing through the great hall, that my jaw dropped to my knees: There are women in hijabs and wearing papooses... 

Click to enlarge

I was getting ready for bed at the time, and shut down the web site, feeling startled and slightly sick.  I was surprised at how upset I felt, upset enough to fumble with my phone for an official definition of this long-forgotten word. 

This seems to indicate that "papoose", as a synonym for what I called a baby sling or carrier* when the girls were infants, is mainly in use in the UK, and I recalled how, as delightful as my British rellies are, they had an unfortunate tendency to make references to "Red Indians" (cringe) and persist in calling Inuit people "Eskimos", a sidebar to their generally dismissive attitudes to Canada and Canadians. 

Still -- "papoose"??? On a BBC web site? Would they call maternity clothes "squaw-wear"? 

This morning, I texted elder daughter in London.  As a millennial who has spent much of her early adulthood correcting stone-age parental attitudes, her response surprised me:  she made the casual claim that she'd heard it used in Canada fairly often.  I sent her the dictionary definition and she seemed taken aback.

I don't, for a moment, think that Mark Savage is a red-neck, but his careless and sentimental vocabulary underscores why we've been hearing less than complimentary messages from groups wounded by things done in Elizabeth's name.

Call 'em baby slings or carriers, Mr Savage. The p-word does you no favours, and it rather ruined my evening.

*Actually, the Resident Fan Boy reminds me that we called the baby carrier by its brand-name: "Snuggli". Since I'm calling out the BBC, I feel compelled to add: many other brands of baby slings are available.

Pacificism

I've taken advantage - although not nearly enough - of the locale of this house-sit to stroll down to the sea and through Ross Bay Cemetery.

Early in my stay, I discovered this charming memorial.

It's a husband and wife: his name is Anglo-Saxon and he was born in British Columbia; hers is Japanese. I love the multi-levels of the phrase "A Pacific Family". Born on different coasts of the same ocean. Peaceful and peace-loving.

Last evening, on one of my last strolls, I found the walks closed off, as the pathways are being upgraded this summer. That's how I came upon this tiny marker, separated from the other stones and memorials by a large expanse of summer-dried grass.

Clicking on the photo will enlarge it.

I guess I should rejoice that someone cared enough to mark his/her grave, but it's a lonely testimonial to life in Victoria for those who were different.

Through a bus, darkly (Write of passage number twenty-eight)

This is a January story, but not of this January. One of the reasons I do NaBloPoMo is to force myself to do posts I always meant to do. Last January, from what I can dimly and reluctantly recall, was a blur of grey slush and pewter-coloured ice. It was a late Wednesday afternoon, and a cold downpour had not quite succeeded in washing the snow from the streets. On Elgin, a water pipe had burst. I took younger daughter to a coffee shop we had loved when we first came to Hades, where the staff was now sullen and unwelcoming. (It has since closed down.)

After dropping her off at her voice lesson, I transferred outside the Rideau Centre with a queue of fellow passengers who barely restrained themselves from shoving each other on to a crowded bus. It was my custom to sit further back, but this evening all seats in the back were already occupied and I reluctantly took one of the "courtesy seats" which face the sideways seats at the front.

I had to step around a young mother in a hijab who, after trying to peer through the mud-caked windows into the gathering darkness, suddenly realized she had to get her stroller off the bus, which meant pushing through crowds of damp and crabby people still trying to board. I caught the eye of a woman sitting across the aisle, smiled and said: "I don't think she knew where she was." The woman seemed to think I was making a criticism, and earnestly explained that it wasn't the mother's fault. Before I could reply that this was what I meant, we were blocked by a wall of standing passengers.

An older lady sitting cater-corner to me in the sideways seat took this as a cue to chat with me. Now, I had caught something from younger daughter just at that Christmas. It was four weeks later and whatever it was had worked its way from my head into my chest, then up into my sinuses and into my ears so that now I was rather hard of hearing. (It would not clear up until mid-February.) I was too cold, wet, and tired to explain this to the lady, and wished I had donned my ear-buds. I smiled and nodded, not being able to make out what she was saying. It didn't take me long to realize that this tactic had been a big mistake. She kept chatting in a low, companionable tone until we turned off Dalhousie on to Murray Street. It was at this point that a formidable lady in an African headdress planted herself between us, and in deep mellifluous tones started to tell us off.

This meant five minutes of my looking in bewilderment between the two women, wondering what on earth I'd missed. Chatty lady chuckled disbelievingly at formidable lady, who then turned to me and seemed to ask what I had to say. I could only manage: "I'm afraid I can't hear you."
"Well, isn't that good for you?" she said, before sailing to the back of the bus, which was now largely empty, flinging back: "I am not your cleaning lady...."

I wondered briefly if we were enacting a scene from the film The Help which was big at that time and which, of course, I hadn't seen. Chatty lady gave me a "Can you believe that?" sort of look, along with a comment that I still couldn't hear, and I staggered off the bus, resolving never to pretend I can hear when I can't and to always try to sit near the back of the bus.

I realize at some point I'll be really old (and undoubtedly deaf as a post) and will have no choice but to sit at the front, but I'll cross that bus when I come to it.