Learning how
Anishinaabemowin works gives deeper insight into culture
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McCue
started attending drop-in Anishinaabemowin classes at the
Native Canadian Centre in Toronto 18 months ago. (Duncan McCue/CBC)
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I'm late for class. As I sit down, my teacher looks at me.
"Aanakwadans, gwiinagam na?" he asks.
Simple question. But I stare at him, blank-faced.
I feel panic, frustration, shame. My mind races. N'gam. I'm
trying to translate in my head. N'gam. Animate intransitive verb.
Finally, a lightbulb in my head flickers. N'gama: to sing.
"Ehn-ehn!" I blurt.
Ninaatig Pangowish is 20-something, a big man with a long braid,
which he twirls around his finger as he looks at me expectantly.
"Ehn, n-wii-nagam!" I slowly reply.
He smiles, nods.
"Ehn, nishin Aanakwadans! Maajtaadaa
"
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Ninaatig
Pangowish from Wikemikong First Nation in Ontario teaches
Anishinaabemowin classes. (Duncan McCue/CBC)
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Twelve adults begin warbling the Anishinaabemowin pronunciation
guide, to the tune of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star:
"Ba - bi - bo, baa - bii - boo - be
"
Singing a nursery rhyme seems a fitting way to start each class.
Though I am 47 and have two university degrees, when it comes to
speaking the language of my ancestors, I talk baby-talk.
Losing our talk
Let me rewind: I'm from the Chippewas of Georgina Island First
Nation in southern Ontario. My people refer to ourselves as Anishinaabe,
which translates literally to "good person." Our language
is Anishinaabemowin.
- Listen to the More than Words special on CBC Radio Monday,
May 21 at 4 p.m. local time.
I don't speak the language, even though my great-grandmother
and grandparents spoke fluently. They were proud Anishinaabe, but
they didn't pass the language on. I imagine they believed their
children would have more opportunities if they spoke English. I
assume racism and pressures to assimilate were also to blame.
The only time I remember hearing the language in the home was
when they didn't want us grandchildren to know what they were saying.
Anishinaabemowin became a secret language of adults.
As my grandmother grew older, she felt the sting of losing her
talk. She went to university to become a certified instructor of
Anishinaabemowin. In her 70s, she began teaching school children
in our community.
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Bea
McCue, Duncans grandmother, went to university to improve
her fluency and become a certified instructor of Anishinaabemowin.
(Submitted by Duncan McCue)
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Looking back, how I would have loved to have learned from her.
But I was consumed with my journalism career and being a parent.
When I visited her in the summer with her great-grandkids, she
sang children's songs to them in Anishinaabemowin. She pointed out
birds and animals. Piichi robin. Jidmoo
chipmunk.
But the words and songs slipped from my mind as soon as I boarded
the plane.
When she died, I inherited one of her Ojibway dictionaries.
I figured it would come in handy when I was writing. But hunting
for an Ojibway translation to explain intellectual concepts of Indigeneity
wasn't the same as truly understanding it.
What further filled me with yearning was the laughter. Teasing
and joking, so much part of our culture, seemed richer when our
people speak Anishinaabemowin.
It became the hole in my heart, not speaking my mother tongue.
And only one person stood in the way of healing it.
Back to school
Eighteen months ago, I decided to start attending drop-in Anishinaabemowin
classes at the Native Canadian Centre in Toronto. Two-hour classes,
twice a week.
When I showed up for the first class, I knew four words in Anishinaabemowin.
Aaniin. Miigwech. Maa'iingan. Gookoosh.
Every Nish pretty much knows "hello" and "thank
you." I know my clan: "wolf." And "pig"
is what my grandparents called us when we gobbled up our food too
fast.
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Ahneen,
which means 'Hello' in Anishinaabemowin, is written on the
front step of the Native Canadian Centre. (Duncan McCue/CBC)
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Those first classes, wrapping my English-speaking tongue around
unfamiliar sounds was embarrassing. But elder Alex Jacobs encouraged
us to introduce ourselves, in the traditional Anishinaabe way, by
placing ourselves in relation to land and other people. I recited
my name, clan, people, home.
"Aanakwadans ndizhinikaaz. Ma'iingan ndodem. Anishinaabe
ndow. Toronto ndi'daa
"
As a second language learner, I find Anishinaabemowin sometimes
difficult to grasp. It's verb-based. In Anishinaabemowin, you can
express a complete thought, using a single verb, adding on prefixes
and suffixes to indicate who is doing what to whom and when.
Renowned Ojibway language teacher Patricia Ningewance explains
verb conjugations by using the example "to eat:" wiisni.
Here's how you might say: "We didn't want to try to eat
lots."
Gaawin ngiiwiigichigagwewiisnisiimin. It's a mouthful.
Anishinaabe author David Treuer has suggested a given verb can
have 4,000 different forms in Anishinaabemowin by the time you're
done monkeying around with it.
Here's another mind-bender: there are no "he/she"
pronouns. Rather than concentrating on gender, the important distinction
is between maaba and maanda (imprecisely translated as "animate"
and "inanimate"). People and animals are classified as
animate, but so are other things an English speaker thinks of as
non-living: a rock, a drum, a pipe, a pot.
As I begin to decipher how Anishinaabemowin works, I get deeper
insight into the beautiful way my ancestors looked at, and spoke
about, our world.
And how badly it's at risk of fading away.
Staying alive
Despite the determined efforts of so many language keepers and
linguists who preserve and teach Indigenous languages, Indigenous
languages are in steady decline.
There are many reasons, including the government of Canada's
residential school policy, which stripped Indigenous peoples of
our languages by separating children from their families.
When UNESCO surveyed the health of over 60 Indigenous languages
in Canada in 2010, it concluded only a small handful Cree,
Ojibway, Oji-Cree, Inuktitut and Dene remain strong and viable.
Most were rated as "endangered."
Anishinaabemowin hangs on tenaciously, partly because it's spoken
throughout the Great Lakes region of the U.S. and in Ontario and
Manitoba. But in southern Ontario, the percentage of Anishinaabemowin
speakers has declined about 60 per cent in the past 20 years, according
to a recent survey by the Anishinabek Nation of its member First
Nations.
The Truth and Reconciliation Commission recommended Indigenous
languages must be recognized as "a fundamental and valued element
of Canadian culture and society." Earlier this month, Prime
Minister Justin Trudeau reassured the Assembly of First Nations
that his government would soon enact its long promised Indigenous
Languages Act.
Details remain vague. Will original languages of this country
receive the same constitutional protections as English and French?
Will the government provide sufficient funds for Indigenous language
revitalization and preservation, as the TRC envisioned?
Whether the government intervenes or not, the more pressing
question facing Indigenous peoples: can we as individuals find the
time to nurture communities of speakers?
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A
tattoo on Ninaatig Pangowishs hand makes for an ever-present
reminder for 'practice' in speaking the language. (Duncan
McCue/CBC)
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Dabaadendiziwin (Humility)
My Anishinaabemowin teacher Ninaatig has tattoos running up
and down his arms, but one word inked on his hand stands out to
me: "practice."
Honestly, I'm a less than faithful student. My job is demanding,
and I keep missing class. It took me ages to understand I need to
study at home if vocabulary is going to sink in.
Fortunately, there's an app for that.
Ninaatig, a tech-savvy millennial, uploaded nouns and phrases
to an online learning tool. On my smartphone, I do flashcards, race
against the clock, take quizzes. Analytics chart my progress, or
lack thereof.
I have modest goals. I want to learn enough words to use in
ceremonies one day, maybe carry on a short conversation.
I hope to enrol in an immersion course this summer
it seems the only way I can stop my English brain from taking over
is to immerse myself in Anishinaabemowin. It scares me. I know too
well how it feels to stand outside a circle of language speakers,
a dumb smile masking my incomprehension.
When I need inspiration, I look to a message I scrawled on a
sticky note:
"Pii gegoo zanagag aabdeg dibaadenimoying."
Roughly translated: "When something is difficult, it is
good to be humble."
It's hard work. I will keep trying.
Because our languages are more than words: they help us define
who we are, on our own terms.
The More than Words series about B.C. Indigenous languages is
produced in partnership with the Reporting in Indigenous Communities
course at UBC's Graduate School of Journalism.
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