Un exemple du modèle national défensif peut être identifié dans certaines méditations du Huron-Wendat Jean Sioui : J’avais un bel arbre devant ma maison je méditais à l’ombre de ses branches un grand vent brusque l’a fait tomber Il m’a manqué longtemps Aujourd’hui je me souviens de lui en regardant les pousses nouvelles à l’endroit même où il était Mon peuple est semblable je sais qu’il survivra (J’avais un bel arbre) Dans ces temps on nous donne des droits artificiels sous réserve Dans nos temps on possédait des droits naturels sans réserve (Dans ces temps) I had a beautiful tree in front of my house I meditated in the shade of its branches a strong, strong wind blew it down I missed it for a long time Nowadays I remember it by looking at the new shoots in the same place where it stood My people are similar I know it will survive (I had a beautiful tree) In these times they give us artificial rights subject to restriction In our time we owned unreserved natural rights (In these times) Myra Cree « Mon pays rêvé ou la PAX CANATA ». Mon pays rêvé commence, à l’évidence, au lendemain d’un ultime référendum, une fois le « verduct rendi » pour écrire comme l’ineffable Jean Chrétien parle. L’autonomie est acquise, nous avons notre propre Parlement, il y a dorénavant trois visions de ce pays. Au Québec on est copains comme cochons avec la communauté francophone qui s’est mise à l’étude des langues autochtones. Nos réserves, sur lesquelles nous en émettions tant, sont devenues des colonies de vacances et nos chefs, qui se répartissent également entre hommes et femmes, de gentils organisateurs. À Kanesatake, où j’habite, y’a du bouleau et du pin pour tout le monde. Le terrain de golf a disparu et tous, Blancs et Peaux-Rouges (je rêve en couleurs) peuvent, tel qu’autrefois, profiter de ce site enchanteur. Nos jeunes ne boivent plus, ne se droguent pas, la scolarisation a fait un bond prodigieux. Tout va tellement bien dans nos familles (il n’y a plus de trace de violence) que l’association Femmes autochtones du Québec s’est recyclée en cercle littéraire. Le Deuxième sexe de Simone de Beauvoir vient d’être traduit en mohawk; l’XY de l’identité masculine d’Elizabeth Badinter, devrait l’être en montagnais pour le Salon du livre qui se tiendra à Kanawake, et L’Amant de Duras, en iniktikut (ça va dégivrer sec dans les igloos). […] je me pince pour y croire, trop fort sans doute, car c’est à ce moment-là que je me suis réveillée. Avec mes meilleurs voeux, que l’an prochain, si nous ne sommes pas plus, nous ne soyons moins. My dream country is obviously beginning, in the aftermath of a final referendum, once the “verduct rendi” to write as the ineffable Jean Chrétien speaks. Autonomy is acquired, we have our own Parliament, there are now three visions of this country. In Quebec, we are friends as pigs with the French-speaking community. who has taken up the study of Aboriginal languages. Our reservations, on which we had so many, have become summer camps and our chefs, who are evenly distributed between men and women, nice organizers. In Kanesatake, where I live, There is birch and pine for everyone. The golf course has disappeared and all, Whites and Redskins (I dream in colors) can, as in the past, enjoy this enchanting site. Our young people no longer drink or take drugs, schooling has taken a quantum leap. Everything is going so well in our families (there is no longer any trace of violence) that the Quebec Native Women's Association has recycled itself into a literary circle. Simone de Beauvoir's Second Sex has just been translated into Mohawk; the XY of Elizabeth Badinter's male identity, should be in Montagnais for the Salon du livre to be held in Kanawake, and L'Amant de Duras, in iniktikut (it will defrost dry in igloos). I pinch myself to believe it, too hard no doubt, because that's when I woke up. With my best wishes, than next year, if we are not more, we are not less. Wendate Éléonore Sioui le constate avec un détachement ironique de celle qui contemple ses blessures. Le poème s’intitule « Autochtonicité » : Dans un verre De vin blanc Déposez deux ou trois gouttes De sang indien Ajoutez-y une once de pollution Brassez à l’européenne Et vous aurez un mélange de deuxième classe Puis fermentez le résidu de l’élixir Qui vous procurera une troisième classe Dont la dilution deviendra L’Amérindien Contaminé dans son authenticité. Make big plans, aim high in hope and work Do not make little plan as it gives no magic stir. (Autochtonicité) In a glass Of white wine Apply two or three drops Of Indian blood Add an ounce of pollution Brew in the European way And you'll have a second-class mix Then ferment the elixir residue. Who will provide you with a third class Whose dilution will become The Amerindian Contaminated in his authenticity Make big plans, aim high in hope and work Do not make little plan as it gives no magic stir. (Autochtonicity) https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Burnham Italo-Québécois Antonio d’Alfonso : Vice Versa Babel (The Other Shore, 1987, L’Autre Rivage, 1999) French edition Nativo di Montréal élevé comme Québécois forced to learn the tongue of power vivì en México como alternativa figlio del sole e della campagna par les francs parleurs aimé finding thousands like me suffering me casé y divorcié en tierra fria nipote di Guglionesi parlant politique malgré moi steeled in the school of Old Aquinas queriendo luchar con mis amigos latinos Dio where shall I be demain (trop vif) qué puedo saber yo spero che la tierra be mine. Nativo di Montreal raised [educated] as a Quebecer forced to learn the tongue of power lived in Mexico as an alternative figlio del sole e della campagna by the frank speakers loved finding thousands like me suffering maried and divorced in frozen country nipote di Guglionesi talking politics in spite of myself steeled in the school of Old Aquinas seeking to fight with my friends latinos Dio where shall I be tomorrow (too lively) qué puedo saber yo spero che la tierra be mine English edition Nativo di Montréal élevé comme Québécois forced to learn the tongue of power vivì en México como alternativa figlio del sole e della campagna par les franc parleurs aimé finding thousands like me suffering me casé y divorcié en tierra fria nipote di Guglionesi parlant politique malgré moi steeled in the school of Old Aquinas Steeled in the school of old Aquinas Where they have crouched and crawled and prayed I stand, the self-doomed, unafraid, Unfellowed, friendless and alone queriendo luchar con mis amigos latinos Dio where shall I be demain (trop vif) qué puedo saber yo spero che la terra be mine. . Romeo Saganash Mahiganou These echoes that chase me Come from the north, from the forest, Nouchimich, Countries of origin of my father. Other rhythms and melodies come to me from elsewhere. And also attract me To the east, the other side of the infinite sea, towards my destiny, my mother's homeland I am mixed, I am half-breed I cry. Are we doomed, We, people of red and white blood wander? Neither pale nor coppery face I am heiress of millennial cultures and Centuries-old problems. At the same time Majish, half-breed, half-half, golden skin The one who gives herself The one who surrenders. I am often accused of the greatest crime of all. Think of the fate of Louis Riel, hanged Of the Children of Malintzin, of Gonzaleo Guerrero. I am accused of infidelity to a people, but which one, which one? The Cree people, Nouchimi Innouch? The white people, Wè-mishtigoshiouch? I met her there, in the middle of the Mishigamish, Great-small lake Majestic and perpetual lake Dressed in her most beautiful furs And its legendary evening moccasins Mahiganou had put himself on her... 1492. She has the look of a she-wolf She explains to me what comes from the immemorial times. My Cree sisters call me Majish The ugly one My Quebec sisters accuse me Missing white Tell me, Mahiganou, who am I? For I do not love myself. No, you are not half of one and half of the other You are one AND the other A White Woman with a Cree Soul A Cree with a White soul You decide what to do with it. I am the heiress of beauties and misfortunes. of two worlds I see Our big Turtle Island Became A huge bed of exchange, love, and crossbreeding. The echoes of drums come back to flatter me softly My tears are rising again I raise my head Mahiganou is not there In the ice, however, it is still there... How beautiful I am, Mahiganou That I am a half-breed.