Hydro-Electricity and Eeyou Istchee (The People’s Land): a Cree poet’s perspective
Posted: June 1, 2013 Filed under: English, Margaret Sam-Cromarty Comments Off on Hydro-Electricity and Eeyou Istchee (The People’s Land): a Cree poet’s perspective
A segment of the massive James Bay hydroelectric project in Québec_ photograph © David Maisel
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Margaret Sam-Cromarty (born 1936, Fort George Island, James Bay, Québec)
“Rivers”
.
Tears are like rivers;
they never stop flowing.
Rivers are like tears;
they become dry.
. . .
“Sphagnum Moss (Baby Moss)”
.
By my door she stood,
an old bag in her hand.
The bag she held
was full of moss from the land.
.
She asked me: Do you need
fresh moss for baby?
Yes, I said,
it keeps the baby dry.
.
She smiled, If you want
I will get more for you.
Knowing her skill,
I nod my head.
.
She goes early to the wet swamps
to find and pick moss
for a little baby.
.
She never wears gloves,
her hands red from cold.
She loves
gathering the soft moss.
.
She chooses a spot
where the sun shines a lot.
The wet cold moss has to dry
before she brings some to me.
.
Over the years I never used
anything so soft and fine
for a baby’s behind
as the moss she brought with a smile.
. . .
“A Cree Child”
.
On the east coast of James Bay
both governments didn’t care.
Other matters were more important
than a Cree child
who sometimes had little to eat.
.
There was no dancing,
no feasting,
in this, the height of the Depression.
The Indians had a passion –
hunting and following
the fur-bearing animals.
.
But the price of furs
was at its lowest.
The Crees did their best
to feed and clothe themselves.
.
In the early days
Crees’ lives
meant the Hudson Bay Company
traders who sometimes denied
Indians credit.
.
The church played a part,
an important role,
saw the suicidal conditions,
decided it best to save souls.
.
I recall small steps
in the cold Northern snow,
a sweet life taken,
a little boy with no shoes.
.
Deeply moved, I weep.
He was my brother.
The now-derelict ferry to Fort George Island just off the Chisasibi Road_near James Bay in Québec
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“Memories of Fort George
and of Alice who lived there until her death”
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My memories of Fort George
are warm and sad.
Down by the river banks
cooled by gentle breezes
from the open bay
the elders sit on the tall grass
playing checkers all day.
.
Someone shouts, “I see the ship”.
Mr. Duncan, the storekeeper,
is down by the Hudson Bay dock.
Game forgotten, they watch
as John the Native navigator
safely guides the supply ship.
.
Navigation by John and other Crees
was needed by captains.
There were no light beacons
to mark the dangerous
sandbars and rock.
Fort George Island never
joined the mainland.
.
The excitement reached the teepees
surrounding the grounds
of the Hudson Bay store.
Women and children rush to the river,
the smell of smoke in their clothing,
to welcome the supply ship.
.
Another big event –
the long midsummer’s eve service.
The Native catechists
in white robes against the crimson sunset,
the women in bright shawls,
the men in their best clothes,
babies with happy smiles.
.
My memories of a hunt
of the coastal people:
a big seal, a white whale.
Someone shouted, “We share –
bring your pots and pans.”
No money changes hands.
The same sharing if someone
kills a black bear
among the inland people.
.
My fondest memory
is of a lovely lady.
Her baked bannock – so good.
I see her sitting in her smoke teepee,
around her the sweet smell
of many spruce boughs.
. . .
“James Bay”
.
James Bay, my home,
is closer than the moon,
its regions so bare,
aloof and remote.
.
Hudson Bay flows
to James Bay,
both beautiful,
wild and free.
.
The rugged coasts
of James Bay and Hudson Bay,
their charm
meets my eyes.
.
The sights and sounds
of James Bay.
They wrap around me,
giving me peace.
. . .
“Black Island”
.
I love your high cliffs,
your rocky shores,
the sounds of surf
and the shadows of a midsummer’s eve.
.
I love your coves,
the strong winds
causing high tides
and heavy fog.
.
I love the smell of seaweed
on your beaches, and driftwood,
the hot breezes from the south
causing low tides, bringing sinking mud.
.
I love the rumble of thunder
far away,
lightning zig-zags across the sky,
creatures seeking shelter.
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I love to hear the wild ducks
feeding in the marshes,
the white gulls hovering,
the heat wave shimmering.
.
I love the islands
in James Bay:
Governor’s Island, Fort George Island,
Grassy Island and Ship Island.
. . .
“Steel Towers”
.
One cold day
I stood on the shores of James Bay.
The sun shone bright, the sky blue.
I wanted to find a clue.
.
Why, among the spruce and pine
rows of steel towers stood in line.
They were out of place,
near and Indian camp.
.
Looking for white birds’ tracks,
instead as I turn my back
Tracks of bulldozers meet my sight –
Ruining the landscape in the fading light.
.
Against the sky and beyond
stand stark steel towers.
In this harsh land of ice and snow
these steel towers are colder than forty below.
.
We Cree live in harmony
on this beautiful land.
In a land where no man had trod,
in the fresh snow I read
.
Signs of upheaval of black earth.
Bulldozers making roads
and steel towers standing tall.
. . .
“Promises”
(for the many who committed suicide in Chisasibi)
.
I am alone.
I feel so lost.
I am not in need
of material things.
.
I am confused.
Looking at myself
I abuse
love and understanding.
.
Stay with me, for my sake.
Despair I have.
No one hears
my pleas.
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We lived in fancy houses –
no more outhouses.
The leaders of my people
made promises and promises.
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I love to learn,
to assure myself
I have a reason
to save my soul.
.
In shame I suffer.
Nobody to ease my hurt.
I found myself afraid,
the problems too great.
. . .
“Life”
.
In this time
of steel
and of speed,
we need
poetry.
Like a friend
warm and true
shedding a tear.
See it hang,
roll down,
feel things unseen.
Drawn
to things we see,
like the setting sun
of breathtaking colours.
A new dawn:
in its blue-shadow world
things move so fast.
.
Now moving faster and faster.
. . .
Margaret Sam-Cromarty, Cree mother, grandmother, and poet, was among about 5,000 Native people whose villages and hunting lands were flooded as part of the province of Québec’s huge hydro-electricity projects involving many rivers which drain into James Bay (the lower portion of Hudson Bay). Damming, river diversion, the creation of huge reservoirs – all of this has reconfigured the surrounding landscape – submerging vast tracts of Boreal forest (black spruce and bogs, mainly) under water, and making mercury contamination a health issue (fish and drinking water). Caribou migration, waterfowl habitat, salmon spawning – all have been affected adversely. The massive water-energy-harnessing infrastructure building-boom began in 1971 (with the construction of the first permanent road into the “taiga” landscape, the James Bay Road) and continues into 2013. It has included the La Grande Project (which saw the elimination of Sam-Cromarty’s birthplace-island, Fort George Island, as a habitable place – and the relocation of Cree villagers from FGI and neighbouring settlements to the government-planned town of Chisasibi in 1981); and the Great Whale Project – a lightning rod for environmental political activism in the early 1990s – which saw Cree Grand Chief Matthew Coon Come garner favourable publicity as he “canoed” to New York City – from Hudson Bay to the Hudson River – and New York State (the #1 hydroelectric energy client of Hydro-Québec) decided not to sign yet another energy agreement with the province. But North America’s appetite for Energy does not lessen; the Eastmain and Sarcelle generating stations have since been built, and 70% of the Rupert River was diverted in 2009-2010. In this latest phase Québec has signed a cooperation agreement over environmental regulations and impact with the Grand Council of the Crees representing 18,000 Crees living on or near present – and future – Hydro Project lands. One thing is for sure by now, and the poet knows it: You cannot go Home again – only in dreams and poems.
. . . . .
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