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When you've done hard time in an Indian residential school - ten years under the loving strokes of a Jesuit strap - you learn to stay away from churches, but this one was different. Maybe it was all those Indians heading towards it. It looked okay on the outside. It was a big building with a high cathedral ceiling to keep the air moving and fresh. Up at the front a high priest chanted in front of a large altar. Tables and chairs were all laid out neat and tidy for the flock. The congregation sat at the tables, their hymnals surrounded by little statues and other icons of the faith. Servers walked up and down the aisles handing out sheet music and collecting money from the faithful. Seemed awfully quiet. People kept their eyes glued to the paper sheets and prayed feverishly, yet silently. The high priest was the only one who made a sound and he was busy shouting in tongues...or maybe it was numbers.... "B Eleven, he bellowed, we'll all go to heaven." I was deeply moved by the experience and lit up a small Player's candle while I waited for a server to bring the bread and wine - a hotdog and a cold Diet Pepsi. So, this was the First Church of Mammon. Not bad. Kind of smoky but the ethereal wisps of smoke lent an air of mystery to this otherwise austere mosque of money. I hear this sort of thing is getting bigger and bigger in Indian Country all the time. It's amazing, Gracie. I ran into a ladyfriend outside and asked where her husband was. She said he belonged to a rival church and was down there now - changing money into wine and beer. I asked her about the kids and she said they were okay. She said one of them snared a rabbit a few days ago and the soup should last for another week. I got all righteous and was about to lay a sermon on her, but just about that time I went into an nicotine fit and had to be taken to the nearest tobacco shop by ambulance. Next time I get all drunked up - and not afraid of anybody - I'll give her a damn good piece of my mind. One the other hand, maybe I'll just withdraw our life's savings and make a pilgrimage down into the States. I hear some of the larger "synagogues of silver" in the USA offer fur coats, cadillacs and love buckets filled with cash. The word out on the Moccasin Telegraph is that Akwesasne has some really good cathedrals of cash and even a few casinos, if you're not the religious type. They say you get a loaded AK-47 and a nice selection of hand grenades, just in case things get tense. "B one, grab your gun." Gilbert Oskaboose, a retired Ojibway journalist from the Serpent River First Nation in Northern Ontario wrote a weekly column here on FirstNations.com. With the permission of his family, we are privileged to continue to present Gib's words and stories, many of which are still relevant today. Gib is a residential school survivor. During his retirement, Gib was engaged in a class action law suit against the Society of Jesus (Jesuits) and the federal Department of Indian Affairs for their respective contributions to a residential school lost childhood. In 2000, Gib suffered a stroke and he was no longer able to continue writing.. He his mind and spirit are still strong though his body is now weak. Gib is currently living in an nursing home in Ontario. Thanks and well wishes go out to him and his family. As Gib would say, "Write on, young native writer, write on...." His hope is that young writers will pick up their pens and use their voice to comment and describe the world we live in. The pen has been now been passed to you, the next generation.
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Keeping
the Faith...