Review Essay: Alicia Elliott. A Mind Spread Out on the Ground. Anchor Canada, 2020.
223 pp. ISBN: 9780385692403
"Wake'nikonhra'kwenhtará:'on" is the Kanien'kéha
(Mohawk language) phrase that roughly translates to "his mind fell to the
ground [...]. Literally stretched or sprawled out on the ground. It's all over"
(9). Wake'nikonhra'kwenhtará:'on is used to capture
and express depression, which is one of the many threads that run through Alicia
Elliott's memoir, A Mind Spread Out on the Ground. The richness of Kanien'kéha is illustrated in another translation of Wake'nikonhrèn:ton. It also means "the mind is suspended"
(9), which is in direct contrast of having a clear head and being in a state of
good-mindedness or Kan'nikonhrí:io (Maracle). Finally, the English translation of Elliott's memoir
calls attention to the importance of the mind. Of critical and cultural
importance to the Haudenosaunee is their Thanksgiving
Address, which reiterates minds coming together as one in a prayer of
gratitude, humility, recognition, and relationality
to others, including animals, land, waters, and plant-based kin. The bringing
together of clear, unsuspended minds is an act of daily healing and
restoration, which is an overall aim of Elliott's honest and illuminating stories.
The memoir as a
genre has increasingly gained momentum by Indigenous literary artists but is
not new as a form of storytelling. Elliott's A Mind Spread Out on the Ground
profoundly resonated with some of my personal, familial, and professional experiences,
even though we are from distinct Indigenous Nations, communities, and
generations. Elliott's gifts of literary style and form – combined with
her humour, wit, and compassionate, poetic disclosures from her life –
make for a refreshing and empowering narrative. Compiled from fourteen
critically reflective autobiographical essays, A Mind Spread Out on the
Ground is more than just an intimate sharing of lived experiences. Elliott unflinchingly
uncovers why these lived experiences shape so many Indigenous lives in this
contemporary Canadian state. While each individual story could be read in
isolation, the book's essays are situated semi-chronologically to be read in
order.
"A Mind Spread
Out on the Ground" is also the title of the first short story which introduces
and contextualizes depression: Elliott's, her mother's, and historically among
her community. Elliott discloses that she was sixteen when she wrote her first
suicide note. By this time in her life, Elliott had witnessed and endured her mother's
life-long struggle with depression, which she addresses in the chapter "Crude
Collages of My Mother." Elliott's depression and suicidal tendencies were not
in isolation. She explains that "[t]hough suicide was
quite rare for Onkwehon:we pre-contact, after contact
and the subsequent effects of colonialism it has ballooned so much that, as of
2013, suicide and self-inflicted injuries are the leading cause of death for
Native people under the age of forty-four" (8). This segues into an apt
description of Canada as an abusive father, which foreshadows the final story
in the book, "Extraction Mentalities." This first essay closes with an
explanation of Wake'nikonhra'kwenhtará:'on and
Elliott poetically illustrates how depression is akin to colonialism, as both
have robbed her of language, but both can be reversed through ceremony.
The second
essay, "Half-Breed: A Racial Biography in Five Parts" is an acute introspective
critique on how nature and nurture impacted Elliott's life story. The key
points of each of the five parts include: 1) Alcoholism. The scent of alcoholic
breath was so redolent of her homelife that she
considered it to be genetic (14); 2) Shame for being Indigenous. In grade two, Elliott
realized her white skin could be weaponized against Indigeneity and she pretended not to be Native because of
her New York classmates' outright disdain for Indigenous peoples; 3)
Catholicism vs. Long House teachings. Elliott's parents were ideological and
cultural polar opposites, which pitted them against each other when they moved
to Six Nations. Her mother defended and minimized the Catholic Church's treatment
of Indigenous children, while her father quietly embraced Haudenosaunee
life ways; 4) Bullying. In grade eleven, Elliott became the target of lateral
violence and bullying, due to her white skin: "That's when it became clear:
whiteness meant different things in different contexts. On the rez, Carrie and I could share skin colours and still be
perceived entirely different as Native people" (18); 5) Teen pregnancy,
internalized racism, and self-hatred. At eighteen, Elliott recalls the day she
went into labour. In a shocking but powerful scene, Elliot reflects on how
"internalized racism had warped" (20) her to the point of relief that her
newborn was pink and "didn't look like my father, my aunts, my uncle, my
grandmother" (20). Elliott's father had educated her on the impacts of Indian
Act legislation, but as a teen mother, she had not fully embraced what it meant
to bear the responsibilities of a Haudenosaunee
matriarch until she became a mother. The turmoil of being both white and
Tuscarora manifested into internalized self-hatred. Fortunately, this book is
testament to Elliott's ongoing growth and healing: "This is how I can
decolonize my mind: by refusing the colonial narratives that try to keep me
alienated from my own community. I can raise my kid to love being Haudenosaunee in a way my parents couldn't, in a way my
grandparents couldn't. This is my responsibility as a Haudenosaunee
woman" (22).
The third
essay, "On Seeing and Being Seen" is about Elliott's introduction to Indigenous
writers. She reveals the overwhelming love and weight of literary erasure being
lifted when she read Islands of Decolonial Love by
Leanne Betasamosake Simpson (23). Elliott shares that
she had never been encouraged to hone her talents as a promising writer but was
instead dismissed as one. She was indeed told she could publish, not because of
her writing but because she is Indigenous. Coupled with her experiences with
systemic racism and sexism, Elliott had not been admitted into any MFA programs
and did not write for years. Elliott's exposure to reading an Indigenous woman
author prompts discussion of the lack of Indigenous presence in publishing. She
discusses E. Pauline Johnson (27), contextualizes the historic and political
landscape Johnson wrote in, and clearly links the trajectory of literary stereotypes
of Indigenous women with a strong critique. She returns to love, and the love
she felt as she read Simpson's book, asking non-Indigenous authors, "If you
can't write about us with a love for who we are as a people, what we've
survived, what we've accomplished despite all attempts to keep us from doing so
[...,] why are you writing about us at all?" (30)
"Weight" adopts
a reflective, second-person voice as Elliott writes to herself. We learn about
the weight of parenthood as Elliott experienced it. She reflects on her high school
love with Mike and subsequent teen pregnancy, which leads to an account of
having to admit her mother's bipolar disorder during an early pregnancy exam.
This traumatic experience jolts Elliott as she realizes "genes could be toxic"
(37), which unleashes a torrent of memories on the weight of being parented by
a stay-at-home mom who battled depression. Elliott's mother made some difficult
decisions for two of her seven children: "one of them chose to live with your
grandmother after a custody battle, and another was disabled, with very little
control over her muscles, so your mother put her in a home where they could
provide round the clock care" (40). Elliott reflects on juggling being a
university student and mother, and her guilt of having to leave her child with
Mike's mother during the week.
The short essay
"The Same Space" is about Indigenous diaspora on
Turtle Island, in urban centers and on Indigenous homelands. Elliott captures
the reality of generations of Indigenous people who, for a multitude of
reasons, have had to leave their home communities for places that have deep
Indigenous roots which are usually not well-known. Elliott explains the history
of Tkaronto and the Dish With One Spoon treaty that
was supposed to be treated as one
collective dish each nation had to share, hunting an equal but sustainable
amount of game. All would eat from that dish together, using a beavertail spoon
instead of a knife to ensure there was no accidental bloodshed—which
might lead to intentional bloodshed. In this way, it was a space of mutual
peace and prosperity. (49)
In perhaps the most powerful and thought-provoking essay "Dark Matters,"
Elliott creates a dialectic between western scientific discourse about
cosmological dark matter and the dark matters of
Indigenous history and experiences. In juxtaposed prose, Elliott's brief
sections about scientific laws on dark matter alternate with lengthy and
articulate reflections about Colten Boushie's murder, racism, and the dark injustice against
Indigenous Peoples that continues to pervade Canadian courtrooms. The essay
opens with a comparison and critique of the "discovery" of dark matter, which
is akin to saying Indigenous peoples of Turtle Island were discovered. Elliott
then pivots in the next paragraph to talk about the moment she learned about
the Stanley acquittal (54), which resonates with many as we braced for the
monumental verdict. I would liken this to the moment the world witnessed the
collapse of the Twin Towers on 9/11. The verdict is etched in our collective
Indigenous memories, and we know exactly where we were and with whom. Elliot
and her family lived in British Columbia during her one-year fellowship and
were touring the province when the verdict was announced, prompting them to
cancel their tourist plans. Alongside many, they participated in the march in
support of Colten Boushie's
family (65); such marches were immediately organized because of the
overwhelming collective grief over the evidence that Indigenous people and
lives do not matter. Elliott succinctly sums it up as "some things don't matter
when a white man does them" (55). While framed around the murder of Boushie, this essay is also an apt discussion on poverty,
racism and its origins, inequities, and legislation that does not protect
Indigenous people. Drawing together her two themes, Elliott ends the chapter
with the following: "Racism, for many people, seems to occupy space in very
much the same way as dark matter: it forms the skeleton of our world, yet
remains ultimately invisible, undetectable. This is convenient. If nothing is
racism, then nothing needs to be done to address it" (70).
"Scratch" is
about Elliott's ten-year plus relationship with head lice, with whom she
related: "As a poor, mixed-race kid, I was treated like a parasite, too" (72).
Her white grandmother (her mother's mom) was disgusted by the lice and did not
acknowledge her family's circumstances: they did not have running water, were
impoverished, and had insignificant supports. With Elliott's mother's illnesses
that spanned schizophrenia, postpartum depression, and manic depression,
treating head lice was not a high priority in their home. Elliott's mother was
frequently hospitalized, leaving her father to solo parent. Elliott left home
at eighteen and lived in a place with running water, which is when she finally
got rid of her head lice.
In an essay
that connects Elliott's early dependency on food for happiness with poverty's
constraints, "34 Grams Per Dose" is an honest analysis of decolonizing diets.
The chapter's title alludes to Chips Ahoy! Triple Chocolate Chunk cookies,
which are "170 calories per 34 grams" (91). To decolonize centuries of
colonialism and capitalism is to confront the near genocide of Indigenous and racialized peoples through governmental policies, where if "racialized people aren't considered human, [then] it's okay
for them to have unhealthy bodies. It's okay if they have unhealthy minds (98).
Elliott recognizes pre-colonial Indigenous diets are the way forward, but this
path is not accessible to all, enabling the continuation of obesity, disease,
and death. Elliott remembers how, as a child she did not eat lunch for a year
and a half because it was not part of the Canadian school lunch program. Her
father had to prioritize their budget to feed only the younger children, as he
constantly feared that social workers would apprehend his children. This memory
launches a discussion on historical Indian Residential Schools, malnutrition,
and starvation policies as well as the ongoing fostering of Indigenous children
in violent homes, "as if white abuse could ever be better than Indigenous love"
(105). The essay ends with a return to acknowledging the medicine and relationality of Indigenous foods: "Corn, beans and squash
were once all my people really needed. They were so essential to our everyday
lives that we refer to them as our sisters. [...gifting seeds] was an act of
absolute, undiminished intergenerational love" (116).
Elliott's "Boundaries
like Bruises" is a love letter of sorts, and an ode to her white husband and their
decolonial, antiracist partnership. While reflecting
on her parent's dysfunctional love, she embraces those experiences as having
taught her to recognize her own strength in setting up boundaries by breaking
their cycles. Elliott's love and respect for her husband is returned and
reminds her of the teachings of the Two Row Wampum: "One row represents the
ship the settlers are steering; the other represents the canoe the Haudenosaunee are steering. Each vessel holds those
peoples' culture, language, history and values" (120).
In the essay "On
Forbidden Rooms and Intentional Forgetting," Elliot uses the style of a fairy
tale to talk about sexual assault. As a survivor, she advocates for her own
agency and decision making, which is what her rapist took from her.
A devout
Catholic, Elliott's mother now lives in an adult care home in Florida and is
the focus of "Crude Collages of My Mother." Elliott's descriptive poetics about
her mother are insightful, "she radiated outward. In my mind she is forever
tinged by orange light dash a sunset, perhaps, or an open flame" (135).
Elliott's mother felt isolated on Six Nations, which manifested into mania that
smothered their homelife as depression and chaos. Elliott
distinguishes her depression from her mom's. While anticipating a happy ending
for this chapter, there was none. It is a solemn and honest recollection of
"crude collages," and she has not seen her mom in five years.
"Not Your Noble
Savage" adopts a humorous tone to address white expectations of Indigeneity in writing by Indigenous authors. Elliott also
asserts a sharp critique of Indigenous literary erasure and white ignorance of
Indigenous sovereignty by beginning with a story. She admits she has never
learned to dance at a powwow, a place to enact one's Indigeneity
and where we are palatable to non-Indigenous spectators and onlookers as "genuine
artifacts." In 2006, these same gawkers were incensed
by Indigenous land protectors in Caledonia, whom "we could entertain [...] every
summer and pose in photos with their children, sure, but attempting to assert
sovereignty over our lands elicited moral outrage on par with drowning kittens"
(152). The common thread in this essay is a recognition that there is a lone, fetishized Indigenous image in the collective consciousness
that further expects Indigenous literary arts to recycle that very same image
and storyline. When "Noble Savage" checkboxes are not met, Elliott says,
"colonial ownership over Indigenous people within the literary community" (153)
constitutes literary colonialism. While Indigenous authors have a
centuries-long presence, critics and non-Indigenous literary reviewers have
outright ignored, forgotten about, and dismissed their contributions. Elliott
zooms in on Surfacing (1972), a survey by Margaret Atwood of
Canadian Literature. Atwood completely disregarded Indigenous writers because,
ostensibly, she could not find any, yet she did write "a chapter that examined
non-Native writers' fictive portrayals of Indigenous peoples" (154). Atwood's
faux pas resulted in a flippant response: "Why did I overlook Pauline Johnson?
Perhaps because, being half-white, she somehow didn't rate as the real thing,
even among Natives, although she is undergoing a reclamation today" (qtd. in Elliot, 154). Elliot critiques this excuse and
counters it with evidence of sexism in literature. She further educates her
readers about Indian Act policies and forces us to confront our own biases on
the content of Indigenous stories by Indigenous authors. In closing, Elliott
returns to the story and imagery of powwows, joking that esteemed author Eden
Robinson should stifle her creative energies to feed the colonial imaginary and
policing of Indigenous identities and labels. In all seriousness, proclaims
Elliott, she and hundreds of Indigenous authors are no one's Noble Savage.
Elliott's
concern for and critique of fetishized images
continues in the essay "Sontag, in Snapshots: Reflecting on 'In Plato's Cave'
in 2018," which addresses still photographic images of Indigenous people since
the advent of the camera. Elliott shares her insecurities of being
photographed, punctuated by Indigenous photographic experiences as both
subjects and as photographers illuminating a decolonial
gaze. Her research on early European male photographers explores their
complicity in Indigenous erasure by capturing vanishing Indians. Elliott
theorizes about selfies (179) and critiques imperial
beauty standards (181). Returning to the style of the memoir, Elliott states
that "photographs are family-building exercises" (183) and recalls that her
parents denied her memories by withholding an image of a baby named Angelica, Elliott's
half-sister (184). This painful discovery prompts her to acknowledge the power
of photographic images, which simultaneously acknowledges Sontag's assessment
of photography as predatory (189). Elliott ends by positing, "Maybe the reason
everything exists to end in a photograph is because this world isn't equipped
to offer something more meaningful: for everything to end in respect, acceptance,
and acknowledgement" (194).
The memoir ends
with a final participatory essay, "Extraction Mentalities." Elliott explicitly
shares memories that are violent, visceral, and triggering. She follows up by providing
prompts and asks questions for the reader to fill in blank spaces or not, as "even
blank spaces speak volumes" (195). We learn, finally, that her father was very
abusive to her sister. In a gentle, yet thoroughly introspective and firm tone,
Elliott challenges accepted misinformation about abusers. What is clear is that
Elliott endured abuse and trauma and she loves her father. This was the most
poignant chapter, as I related to her experiences. Elliott has fond memories of
her father as loving and as someone who supported her goals and aspirations of
writing, which explains the essay's title (201). Going beyond sharing these
experiences, Elliott illuminates (but does not excuse) that her father was a
survivor of his father, and how their behaviour were tactics to survive
colonialism (203). Her ability to return to these moments as a Haudenosaunee woman and mother create a heartbreaking and
empowering conclusion to the book. As part of her healing journey, I interpret
this chapter as a monologue for readers to begin their own healing journeys. Just
as her own memory extracted bad behaviours and events, her prompts and
questions encourage readers to recall similar events and behaviours that they
can navigate in a space that is at once beautifully candid and anonymously
safe. Elliott concludes "Extraction Mentalities" by carefully examining
extraction and dehumanization, which are products of colonialism. Indigenous
traditional resource extraction, she says, is "a cornerstone of capitalism,
colonialism, and settler colonialism" (213). She then poses the question if
readers have ever felt dehumanized. Here Elliott strongly connects the
justification of colonialism with the dehumanisation of Indigenous peoples and compares
this to the demonization of her father as an abusive man who is surviving
colonialism (217).
Elliott has
offered a sophisticated collection of memories and experiences, traumatic and
joyful. Her writing reflects literary caring and pathos that affords personal
growth and healing, communal rejuvenation, and generational wisdom. Our minds
may be suspended and "spread out on the ground" but, as she demonstrates, minds
are resilient. Coming to peace and having a Good Mind are in reach.
Renae Watchman, McMaster University
Works Cited
Atwood, Margaret. Survival.
1972. Toronto, House of Anansi Press, 2021.
Maracle, Gabriel Karenhoton.
"The Good Mind: Haudenosaunee Models of Healing and
Trauma." Ngā Pae
o te Māramatanga Media
Centre, 11 November 2020, www.mediacentre.maramatanga.ac.nz/system/files/10.The%20Good%20Mind%20Haudenosaunee%20models%20of%20Healing%20and%20Trauma.pdf. Accessed 18 May 2021.