Ella Christie is an elder working as a translator with the Cherokee Nation.
She is a full-blooded Cherokee and she speaks the language. But she worries
that many younger members of the Cherokee Nation do not speak the language.
"I know it for a fact that there are too many young people that don't know
how to speak it," she says. "And it's fading. We're losing our language. If
they don't try to get in there and try to learn to speak it and know these
words, know what they mean, we are going to lose it."
The fact that the Cherokee language is disappearing encouraged her to take
a 13-week course in language translation in 1987. She now works for the Cherokee
Nation a few days a week translating short stories and other materials.
The Cherokee Nation, she says, is spread all over the world. She gets calls
regularly from aboriginal people wanting to reconnect with their language
and culture.
"They say that they are Cherokee Indians and that they've lost their heritage
and they're just trying to pick back up all that they can," she says.
Answering questions is a big part of Calvin Pompana's job, too.
He has earned his feathers as an elder. He spent 10 years in residential
schools, until the age of 17, and then split when he decided that he didn't
like what was happening there.
Residential schools, also called industrial schools, were part of an assimilation
campaign by the Canadian government.
Aboriginal children were taken from their communities and placed in white
institutions, many set up by churches, where they were forbidden to speak
their native language or have any involvement with their religion or culture.
The residential school system lasted roughly 130 years.
"I was in till Grade 11," he says. "I was in for about 10 years, and then
I jumped boat and I joined the navy. I got out in the early '60s when I think
our people started questioning what was going on in many ways. I was part
of that group."
He spent the next several years building up a drug and alcohol dependency
problem that he has since kicked. He credits his parents with helping him
beat his addictions.
"I was lucky that my mom and my dad spoke the language, knew some ceremonies,
knew some songs. I was able to relate to them after I had my bout with drugs
and alcohol."
Pompana's background is Dakota, which means a friend, relative or ally.
He says that his people were mislabeled by historians as Sioux.
"There is no word for Sioux in my language."
Pompana says that he thinks "the doors are opening up for native peoples."
He visits with all kinds of kids to help spread that message.
"I do lots of storytelling with students from kindergarten to Grade 12,"
he says. "As native peoples, the opportunities are limitless. It's just that
we have to get our act together and get ourselves a bit of an education and
pursue some of these things."
In 1995, a riot at a correctional center landed Pompana in a prison. But
he was on the right side of the bars.
As part of the negotiations following the 1995 riot, the prison opened
up a permanent position for a resident elder.
"I am the elder advisor," he says. "What I do is I try and empower the
aboriginal inmates as well as anyone who wants to listen to me,...to empower
them to take responsibility for where they are today.
"And of course, they are in jail."
As resident elder, he conducts sweat lodges, pipe ceremonies, healing circles,
talking circles and sacred circles in the hope that aboriginal people will
be encouraged to begin to change their lives.
"Healing begins with you," he says.
"You've got to take responsibility for where you are and start your life
anew again. First and foremost, you have to take responsibility."
In traditional native culture, the elder would administer medicines. This
is the case with Pompana. He uses traditional healing medicines such as sweet
grass, sage, bear root and cedar when he conducts his ceremonies, and during
his daily life.
Pompana has been traveling to correctional institutions for over
12 years with his messages and teachings. He is beginning to see some changes.
"I think trying to empower people to take responsibility for their lives
is a tough job," he says.
"A lot of people, when they are in jail, they are receptive to this stuff.
But once they walk out that door, it's a different story altogether. People
really have a choice what they want to do, and I would say that more and more
and more are staying out."
The Dakota word "pompana" translates into something like "a modern day
town crier," he says. The pompana were the ones that gave out the news --
the good news and the bad news. He has adapted that role to modern life, using
his skills as a healer and guidance counselor to give direction to inmates
and other aboriginal people in need.
Pompana has found that there are some non-aboriginal inmates in the prison
who also want to take part in his ceremonies.
"I have a lot of people here in jail that come to our ceremonies. As long
as they come to our ceremonies in a good way and with an open mind, I don't
mind helping out who I have to help," he says. "But my primary objective and
target is native peoples.
"If you can help young people to identify who they are, who they are as
a native person, you should be proud of that, whether you are Salish, or Shuswap,
or whoever you are. You gotta be proud of who you are. You gotta be proud
of your heritage and your history: that's part of who you are."