INTRODUCTION

In 2003 and 2005, I attended the annual Conne River Mi’kmaq powwow in Newfoundland as part of my research into the sharing of ceremonies among First Nations. Powwows are generally social occasions for family and friends and an opportunity to celebrate First Nations culture with traditional dances and drumming. In this paper I will give an overview of the Newfoundland context and the Conne River powwow, and then analyse the powwow ground as a ‘produced space’, drawing on the theory of Henri Lefebvre.[1] Accordingly, the powwow can be understood as a space with rules and boundaries and as a political venue for the reassertion of First Nations identity, especially in Newfoundland where Mi’kmaq have struggled for recognition in the most economically depressed Province in Canada.

The premise is that within the powwow space a negotiation of what is ‘traditional’ and ‘sacred’ occurs, either through instruction, such as that given by the Master of Ceremonies and Mi’kmaq spiritual leaders, or through the consensus of those participating. In my observation, ‘traditional’ in the Mi’kmaq context is less to do with whether something links to the past as to whether it represents an indigenous identity. The coloured ribbons sewn onto the shirts of some of the dancers are symbolic of this identity, although the practice is not part of the specific cultural heritage of the Mi’kmaq. In another example, I overheard one woman say of another that she created her regalia by looking at what Mi’kmaq women were wearing in old photographs. In this case, the clothing may have been worn by Mi’kmaq women in the past, but not for dancing in a powwow. ‘Traditional’ also represents certain values, which are transmitted at events such as the Conne River powwow.

The notion of ‘sacred space’ refers to an area that has been sanctified and thus set apart from ‘ordinary’ or profane space through ritual acts, as suggested by Émile Durkheim, or as a place where the divine has or can manifest to human beings, in the phenomenological view of Mircea Eliade.[2] Within Religious Studies, Jonathan Z. Smith has, like Durkheim, stressed the social aspect of sacred space, but for him ‘[r]itual action does not make space sacred; rather placement renders actions sacred.’[3] More recently, Ronald Grimes has challenged Smith’s emphasis on ‘placement’. In one example he uses, Grimes points out that Native American bones in museums are still regarded as sacred by many Native Americans although they are located in a profane space.[4] In American Sacred Space, Chidester and Linenthal observe how sacred and profane are not necessarily exclusive.[5] Sacred places are contested spaces where both sacred and profane activities take place. In an example they discuss traditional rituals take place after hours at a Hawaiian sacred site that is a national park during the day open to the public.

Much scholarship on ‘sacred space’ within Religious Studies follows either Durkheim or Eliade, but, like Kim Knott in her book The Location of Religion (in which she analyses the production of space based on conceptions of the ‘left hand’), I look to the French sociologist Henri Lefebvre for a spatial theory that emphasises the ideological nature of space.[6] Using Lefebvre’s theory as a tool of analysis, I am interested in how space and other elements are 'made sacred', thus setting up boundaries of exclusion.

THE NEWFOUNDLAND CONTEXT

 The Newfoundland Mi’kmaq interest in engendering certain values at the powwow must be read in context as their situation is unique in Canada due to the Terms of Union in 1949, which made no mention of the province’s Mi’kmaq or Innu. As the Royal Commission report by Maura Hanrahan states:

Because there was no mention of First Nations, the Indian Act was not applied in Newfoundland. This meant that the province’s Innu and Mi’kmaq were ineligible for the range of programs and services enjoyed by their counterparts in continental Canada. In fact, they did not exist in law.…[7]

The campaign for Confederation was led by Joseph R. Smallwood, a pig farmer and union organiser from Gander in central Newfoundland, who became the first premier of the province of Newfoundland. Jerry Wetzel, a First Nations lawyer, who was instrumental in helping Conne River gain recognition, wrote a report outlining how aboriginals were omitted from the Terms of Union despite the existence of colonial treaties with the island’s Mi’kmaq and the 1945 census results.[8] At that time, Nova Scotia was trying to relocate Mi’kmaq in their province onto two reserves in order to save administration costs, but this strategy ultimately failed, so Canadian officials began renewing their efforts to assimilate Indians.[9] Therefore, while negotiations for Confederation were going on in Newfoundland, the Indian Affairs Branch special committee recommended speedy assimilation of Newfoundland Indians. According to Wetzel: ‘The federal policy that was established allowed the Government of Newfoundland to determine what communities would be considered “Native” for the purpose of cost-sharing agreements.’[10] The province decided there were no ‘Native’ communities, and maintained that standpoint until 1973, when Conne River’s representatives made a strong case. However, they were not granted full status under the Indian Act until 1984. According to Pilip (Phil) Jeddore, the province initially disagreed. Reserve status was finally granted to Conne River in June 1987.[11]

Saqamaw Mi’sel Joe, traditional chief of the Conne River Mi’kmaq Band, claimed that the stance of Joey Smallwood only recently came to light from his letters, which indicate that the Mi’kmaq were not given First Nations Status at the time of Confederation due to Smallwood’s political manoeuvrings, insisting ‘we are all Newfoundlanders here.’[12] Similarly, Calvin White, elected chief of the Flat Bay Mi’kmaq Band and former president of the Federation of Newfoundland Indians, said in an interview for First Nations Drum that:

Native people were caught up in the strategies for vote-getting during referendum campaigns prior to Confederation. Despite obvious evidence to the contrary, Joey Smallwood’s stated position at the time was that there were no Indians in Newfoundland at all.[13]

Thus, the Mi’kmaq have had to struggle against the perception that in Newfoundland aboriginals were culturally extinct, in reference to the Beothuk Indians who are generally regarded by Canadians as the only aboriginal peoples native to Newfoundland. When the Mi’kmaq presence is acknowledged, they are dismissed as immigrants who came to the island from Nova Scotia afteror at the same time as Europeans.

These contested histories have had an impact on the Mi’kmaq struggle for recognition in Newfoundland. This has engendered a deep self-reflection as they debate and determine what it is they are struggling for and what it means to be ‘Mi’kmaq’. Violet Benoit Dawson, elected chief of the St George’s Band Mi’kmaq in western Newfoundland, said that: ‘Federal recognition would mean more to the province’s Mi'kmaq than just access to funding… it would give hundreds of Mi'kmaq a sense of identity.’[14] This sentiment has been vocalised by many who are engaged in the revival of Mi’kmaq traditions, much of which had been lost through four hundred years of European colonisation and Catholic conversion. Frustratingly, it was not that long ago when many elders were able to speak the Mi’kmaw language fluently, but this is now rare. As Marilyn John recalls: ‘My memories of my ancestors are when I was still a small child listening to our elders speak in their native tongue.’ She says:

My hopes of the Mi’kmaq of my homeland is that they will strengthen their cultural awareness and use their culture and traditions through dance and songs to bring its richness to other people. I would hope to live long enough to once again hear the language spoken in our homes.[15]

However, the Mi’kmaq Nation in Atlantic Canada as a whole has maintained their language. Through them, Newfoundland Mi’kmaq are engaged in a shared, oral culture, which includes the annual powwow.[16]

THE POWWOW

Tara Browner, a powwow dancer and professor of ethnomusicology and American Indian Studies at UCLA, describes the powwow as ‘an event where American Indians of all nations come together to celebrate their culture through the medium of music and dance.’[17] At competitive powwows, which Conne River is not, dancers specialise and compete in certain dance forms. Browner admits the powwow appears a contradictory ‘pastiche of tradition and commercialism’.[18] In my observation, there is also a tension between keeping things the same – ‘this is how it is done’ – and innovation, allowing for spontaneity and elements that are specifically Mi’kmaq or Inuit in origin. Calvin White, chief of the Flat Bay Mi’kmaq Band in western Newfoundland spoke of his intentions to hold a powwow in his region.[19] He wanted to include more Mi’kmaq elements, such as the longhouse, but recognised that the powwow itself needs to conform to the Plains Indian-derived format.

The Conne River powwow strives to be inclusive of all nations, including Europeans and non-aboriginal Canadians. At the opening address in 2003, Chief Mi’sel Joe announced: ‘The powwow is not just about Red Indians, but about everybody,’ he said. ‘It is about respect. We’ve been doing it for six hundred years,’ giving the impression of a continuous tradition predating European settlement in Newfoundland, thus his message also underlines their claim as a First Nation.[20] The powwow is also inclusive of young people, with specific dances for children and live music and karaoke in the evenings. Indeed, the most common spoken aims of the powwow in 2003 were for revitalising the community and for introducing ‘Mi’kmaw traditions’ to the children so that they can grow up proud to be Mi’kmaq. According to Pilip Jeddore, the powwow gives the Mi’kmaq a ‘much needed opportunity to become comfortable with their identity as indigenous people.’[21]

When the powwow began at Conne River, they invited Mi’kmaq from the mainland in early 1996 to teach them dances prior to the actual event taking place in July. Jeddore wrote of the event, saying:

The guests came and demonstrated powwow dancing and songs, and most important of all, powwow etiquette and protocol. This was very important because powwows include sacred ceremonies that have a strict protocol and often where filming and recording is strictly prohibited.[22]  

The emphasis on protocol is of interest, indicating that the powwow as a whole is a ceremonial gathering that requires certain kinds of behaviour. The rules are indicated on the powwow programme, restated at times by the Master of Ceremonies, and verbalised again by those leading ceremonies. Occasionally participants correct each other, or grumble under their breath if they object to someone else’s dress or behaviour.

 THE POWWOW SPACE

According to Tara Browner, there are two main forms of the powwow: the Northern, originating around the Great Lakes and the Plains, and the Southern, originating in Oklahoma, where Browner herself comes from. The Mi’kmaq follow the Northern style of the Anishnaabeg. This powwow diagram shows the relationships between the participants and the powwow space (see figure 1).[23] In George Martin’s original diagram, the spirits are shown at the edge, protecting the space, but in my conversations with Mi’kmaq powwow dancers, spirits are also in the drum and with the dancers. Additionally at Conne River, spirits are in the hill on the northern side of the powwow ground.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Figure 1: The Conne River powwow space, adapted from a diagram by George Martin (in Tara Browner, Heartbeat of the People: Music and Dance of the Northern Pow-wow (Urbana; Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 2004, p. 97).

 

‘Space is shaped and acted upon, but also acts upon and shapes social lives.’[24] The powwow ground is distinguished from other spaces by the physical structures erected, the activities that take place within its spaces and the rules that govern them. The ground as a whole has a general rule of behaviour – no alcohol or drugs – while certain areas have more specific rules. The main structural feature of the powwow is the dance arena, marked off with a roped ring. Within the arena is the arbour in the centre, which shelters the powwow drums and singers. The spectators’ areas and vendors’ stalls, selling food, crafts, jewellery and clothing, define the outer circle of the powwow.

The areas within the arena have more strict protocols than the areas on the periphery, but this is still a superficial model of the powwow space, because there are other defined spaces with rules that govern them on the edge and beyond. At Conne River, the ‘sacred fire’ is one such area, located near the sweat lodges a distance to the west of the powwow. On the first day, the fire is lit at sunrise and tended by fire-keepers until the end of the powwow, normally four days. There are more protocols regarding the sacred fire than for the sweat lodge fires – kept separate – that heat up the sweat lodge stones. From what I observed, you can warm yourself by a sweat lodge fire but not by the sacred fire, which is only for prayer, according to one Mi’kmaq fire-keeper in 2005.[25] Participants give tobacco to the sweat lodge fire before taking part in a sweat, as at other times. In Conne River there is one more space that needs to be mentioned: the wooded hill on the northern side of the ground where traditional birch bark wigwams have been constructed. Walking though these woods, one Mi’kmaq was dismayed at the discarded empty beer cans and the laughter of some young people nearby, which he deemed inappropriate, implying that they should behave in a respectful manner on this hill. He stated it was where Mi’kmaq came to fast and pray; in other words, it is a sacred space and, with such spaces, requires certain protocols that ritually distinguish it from other spaces.

During the powwow, the participants may enter the arena through the gate in the east only when instructed to do so by the Master of Ceremonies. The rules that govern the spaces within the arena remain even when there is no dancing, but the time from the Grand Entry to the Grand Exit – about five or six hours – is when the rules are stated, exemplified and reinforced. For example, no photographs can be taken during the Honour Song. Generally, people do not enter the arena without permission from the MC. Powwow organisers stated publically (over the loud speaker) their disapproval of the socialising that took place in the evenings under the arbour, although the drums were not there at the time. These verbalised instructions and admonishments alert the participants to the behaviour expected of them. If they do not wish to comply, they are expected to leave the powwow ground.

PRODUCTION OF SPACE

Henri Lefebvre’s framework from The Production of Space is useful because of its applicability beyond his original focus on urban spaces, albeit with qualification. Briefly, Lefebvre outlined a dialectical ‘triad’ in the production of space.[26] The first aspect is spatial practice, embracing the production and reproduction of space where specific locations, in Andy Merrifield’s interpretation, ‘structure lived reality, include routes and networks, patterns and interactions that connect places and people, images with reality, work with leisure’ and perceived landmarks, features and boundaries ‘aid or deter a person’s sense of location and the manner in which a person acts.’[27]

The second aspect is representations of spaces, conceptualisations imposed by planners and authorities, ‘objectified plans and paradigms’, where ‘ideology, power and knowledge lurk within its representation.’[28] It is the repressive aspect of space, with rules and, for our purposes, protocols, which are rules or codes of behaviour that govern relations and are expected to be adhered to at ceremonial events, including the powwow (see below).

Finally there are representational spaces, ‘embodying complex symbolisms… linked to the clandestine or underground side of social life, and also to art…’[29] These are the lived spaces of ‘everyday experience’, inhabited without regard for the ‘rules of consistency or cohesiveness,’ according to Merrifield. These ‘spaces of representation’ are ‘felt more than thought.’[30] Consequently, representational space ‘may be directional, situational or relational, because it is essentially qualitative, fluid and dynamic.’[31] This includes the largely unconscious resistance to and creative interactions with the ‘produced’ spaces.

Among the Mi’kmaq, the powwow space is transformed through conscious self-education into a conceived space with the view of extending the ideology and rules into ‘everyday life’ in the community. The respect to elders that is part of the powwow etiquette is hoped to be replicated beyond the powwow into the community’s everyday practice. One qualification I have to make is that Lefebvre’s exaltation of ‘spontaneity’ and the breaking of rules – an act against authority – would be regarded differently in a Native American or First Nations context. However, as an ideological space, the powwow works well within this framework.

Lefebvre stated: ‘The more carefully one examines space, considering it is not only with the eyes, not only with the intellect, but also with all the senses, with the total body, the more clearly one becomes aware of the conflicts at work within it, conflicts which foster the explosion of abstract space and the production of a space that is other.’[32] Despite homogenising tendencies of political forces, space remains ambiguous, diverted by people’s own purposes and needs. This creates an underlying ‘struggle’ between opposing forces, which Lefebvre terms Logos and Anti-Logos, borrowed from Nietzsche, forming a dialectical tension between Logos/order/rationality and anti-Logos/creativity/spontaneity, a conflict between domination and appropriation, how space is conceived and how it is used.[33]

Merrifield says ‘The Production of Space thereby underscores Nietzsche’s contribution to the right to difference, to the prioritisation of the lived over the conceived.’[34] Creative appropriation is to be encouraged, in Lefebvre’s model, to break down the rigid ‘homogenising tendencies’ of the élite, who seek to control space – and spatial practice, the social space – despite the natural tendency for repetition to generate differences.[35] The ‘right to difference’ through ‘effective struggle’ would not go down well among many indigenous communities. While on the one hand they are reclaiming (rather than appropriating) ‘colonised spaces’ in their struggle for recognition as First Nations, which entails establishing a right to difference from other Canadians, they may suppress differences within their own communities. At the powwow, there is an obvious antagonism against those who misuse ceremonies, desecrate sacred spaces and show disrespect, but Conne River Mi’kmaq are also aware of who from the community is not in attendance at the powwow. In 2003, one Mi’kmaq woman spoke about how some Catholic Mi’kmaq, mainly elders, disapproved of ‘traditional spirituality’, but was relieved to see the priest at the powwow.[36] In 2005, the priest (a different one) did not attend. Tensions also exist between Mi’kmaq who hope to re-establish traditional values and authorities and those that think these elements hold back economic progress.

The conceived space ‘implies tacit agreement’ and ‘imposes reciprocity’ – in other words, ‘there is a spatial consensus’, which homogenises views and practices at the cost of difference – all agree not to differ, as it were.[37] ‘The spatial consensus… constitutes part of civilization much as do prohibitions against acts considered vulgar or offensive…’[38] However, Lefebvre implies that this consensual agreement between space and its users is largely unconscious, a learned behaviour that has become automatic, which is clearly not the case at the Conne River powwow where participants are consciously and consensually being socialised into what are perceived as ‘traditional’ values and practice through the space and its attending protocols or rules. New people are instructed in protocols, while any innovation or creativity has to be appropriate. For example, in one Men’s Traditional dance I observed, an Inuit man was free to interpret this to suit himself within the bounds of the Men’s Traditional by performing a ‘bear dance’ he learned from the Inuit. No-one disapproved – some observers were more concerned about dancers wearing baseball caps, which were deemed inappropriate. In another example, at the sunrise ceremony each spiritual leader is free to perform it in their own way, while the protocols regarding the pipe are, in general, uniformly observed. While there is room for innovation and creativity, there are boundaries, often depending on whether or not the act or item of clothing can be regarded as ‘traditional’, that is, reproducing ‘traditional values’ in some way.

PRODUCTION OF SACRED SPACE

There is a common notion that for Native Americans, First Nations and other indigenous peoples all is ‘sacred’, meaning that the material and spiritual realms are not distinguished. Of course, it is not as simple as that, though one could suppose that the ideas of ‘material’ and ‘spiritual’, in the Cartesian sense, are alien to many non-Western cultures. However, the notion of ‘sacred’ is highly defined. How much of this is influenced by encounters with Jesuits and other Europeans, or modern cultural concepts, is not easy to say. Without doubt, certain persons, places and objects have had special significance, accompanied by specific rules of behaviour and referred to using specific vocabulary, such as wakan in Lakota, often translated as ‘sacred’, but closer to the idea of ‘powerful’ and ‘mysterious’ (Wakan Tanka is translated as ‘Great Mystery’ as well as ‘Great Spirit’). The relational aspect is significant as fires, stones and spaces are sacred by the intentions of those who interact with them as not all fires, etc., are sacred – the term was not used when people spoke of the sweat lodge fire. However, the stones heated in the fire are referred to as ‘grandfathers’, indicating their relational status with a kinship term, thus sacred and treated with respect. As ‘persons’, such stones are a source of power and even have agency.[39]

As some fires and stones are more sacred than others, this is also true of dances. At the 2003 powwow, the Master of Ceremonies instructed people to refrain from taking photographs during the first three songs (Honour, Flag and Veteran) because they were ‘sacred’, while other powwow songs can be made ‘sacred’ by the actions of participants. In 2005, during the Men’s Traditional, one of the dancers began dancing in front of the host drum and brushed it with an eagle feather fan he was carrying. The MC announced that, by this action, the dancer ‘blew the eagle whistle, making the song an Honour Song, so no photos,’ and when another dancer stopped to join the first, the MC instructed that no other dancer should overtake them, adding: ‘When the spirit of the drum catches them, dancers can do this.’[40] By fanning the drum, the dancer set in motion a number of protocols that should be followed in order to acknowledge the song as a ‘sacred’ song.

In my observation, the degree of ‘sacredness’ is defined by the number of protocols. In Plains Indian culture, which provides the model for protocols adhered to in powwows, the feather and the pipe involve the most ‘rules of respect’, which is one way of defining ‘protocols’. They are generally considered, if broken, to have consequences beyond human control, even death (e.g. when an eagle feather is dropped), although certain actions can restore the ‘balance’, according to one Mi’kmaq spiritual leader.[41] The cynical may think this is an example of appealing to an unaccountable authority in order to impress certain codes of behaviour, as with the supporting anecdotes providing the evidence linking misfortune with the breaking of protocols.

There are rules about who may wear an eagle feather, a sign of honour, or carry a ceremonial pipe, for service of the community, and further protocols associated with smoking the pipe. Arvol Looking Horse, Keeper of the Lakota Sacred Calf Pipe, indicated that ‘women on their moon and men with blood on their hands’ may not smoke the pipe.[42] The reason often given for the exclusion of menstruating women is that they are too powerful and may affect the ceremony. However, it is just as likely to be connected to notions of ‘purity and danger’. Mary Douglas, following the work of Arnold Van Gennep, points out that those in transitional or liminal states pose danger precisely because of their marginal status, which leaves them exposed to potentially harmful power.[43] The social structure seeks to maintain itself through such ideas of power and, in her observation, ‘those holding office in the explicit part of the structure tend to be credited with consciously controlled powers, in contrast with those whose role is less explicit and who tend to be credited with unconscious, uncontrollable powers, menacing those in better defined positions.’[44] With regard to First Nations, the Lakota views on power, represented by high ranking men such as Arvol Looking Horse, appear to be widespread and were apparent among Mi’kmaq I spoke to. This includes Plains Indian views on the playing of the powwow drum – only men may do so.[45] Some Mi’kmaq women have claimed that this is not the ‘Mi’kmaq way’ and continue to play hand drums at least, but where the powwow is concerned, the Plains Indian-derived protocols govern the spaces and actions within them.

‘Protocols’ defined as ‘rules of respect’ mean that they signify ways of showing ‘respect’ and ‘honour’. They are considered universal in that they are expected to be followed or recognised by everyone. ‘Protocols’ are implicit in places where they are more ingrained, such as among Lakota traditionalists in Wanblee on Pine Ridge Oglala Sioux Reservation. Among Newfoundland Mi’kmaq, especially those outside of Conne River, traditional culture is still in the process of being revitalised and so the term is frequently verbalised to reinforce ‘traditional’ values of respect and honour in the hope that one day it will be part of their ‘every day experience’.

The notion of what is ‘tradition’, in these instances, does not merely define an activity, but also an attitude. This was expressed by Saqamaw Mi’sel Joe when he spoke about aboriginal spirituality as ‘getting together, going fishing, having BBQs’, which are not distinctly aboriginal activities. When this was pointed out, he said, ‘It is not walking in the woods, but how you walk in the woods.’[46]

CONCLUSION

The powwow space affects the way people interact with it and each other. It is made ‘other’ or ‘sacred’ through the consensus of the participants who agree that the space is no longer a recreation ground (as it is at other times), but a powwow ground. This intended meaning of the space is reinforced through ritual or ceremony, beginning with the lighting of the sacred fire. Naming the space generates the rules that go with it, much as a wooden surface can be called an ‘altar’ or a ‘table’ to determine its use. According to Nye, ‘discourses do not simply describe our sense of reality, they give us the means by which we experience it.’[47] Employing Foucault’s conceptualisations, he says:

Discourses work on this principle: they shape the world, and make people act through their power. But discourses do not have the power in themselves, they are instead a means by which power relations are expressed and constructed… Existing within such a regime makes it difficult to accept any other truth than that which is given by the dominant discourse.[48]

The act of renaming the recreation ground ‘powwow ground’ defines behaviour in the space. The area can no longer be used to play sports. If they did, they would be asked to leave, although at any other time it would be permissible. Thus the rules of the space are created by consensus through naming the space, which gives it meaning and is understood in terms of expected behaviour. That is, the protocols give meaning to the space by providing the rules, which are enacted through ceremonies, dances and social interaction. In the activities within these spaces, the rules and values become embodied. Without the rules, the powwow space would be just a field with a circle marked out and not much else, and the sacred fire would be used to roast marshmallows, as happened in St. George’s on Aboriginal Day, where ‘everyday life’ had yet to be transformed successfully according to the conceived space when, in time, the participants would perceive the space around the fire as ‘sacred’ and behave accordingly.

Through reintroducing standards that are considered ‘traditional’, such as respect for elders and generosity, as well as appropriate behaviours such as abstaining from intoxicants prior to ceremonies, they aim to reassert indigenous authorities and patterns of behaviour in order to maintain and emphasise a distinction between themselves and those descended from European settlers. In Newfoundland, European and indigenous peoples have co-existed for several hundred years, but the Mi’kmaq have not forgotten who they are. Now that they are gaining recognition politically, they have increased their efforts to distinguish themselves culturally. The Mi’kmaq of Newfoundland are actively emphasising difference, although some of their traditional activities on the surface appear to be similar to their neighbours – hunting and fishing, for instance – with the distinction that they are engaging in these activities differently, defined in terms of language, culture and worldview. Despite this, they also insist that they are Newfoundlanders, taking the concept of ‘community’ beyond Conne River, while determining what it is to be Mi’kmaq at the centre, thus they are performing indigeneity within the triad of being Mi’kmaq, First Nations and Newfoundlanders.

 

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