Taylor vs. Kinsella the showdown that wasn't

Page 7

It was the showdown that never happened. The case of the missing confrontation. Though it seemed, at least to me, like the media was building it up to be something potentially and politically volatile, I must confess it died with a whimper, not a bang.

I am, of course, talking about my appearance at Toronto's International Festival of Authors, with the most notable of alleged Aboriginal cultural appropriators, W.P. Kinsella.

Speaking as an Ojibway playwright and Artistic Director of Native Earth Performing Arts, Inc., Toronto's only professional Native theatre company, it seemed it was expected of me to face the man from the West, armed with only baseball bats (his advantage) or lacrosse sticks (my advantage). But showdown at the W.P. Corral it wasn't.

The day I saw my name on the brochure of invited writers, a dozen or so authors after Kinsella, I knew this festival wasn't going to be as much fun as I had anticipated. I could feel the potential cultural storm beginning to blow in. Already many of my Native friends were attempting to generate within me a murderous literary froth; an Indigenous intellectual rage; urging an Aboriginal jihad for lack of a better term. I was getting the impression this festival wasn't big enough for the two of us.

The media were no help. I did these interviews concerning the festival. First question - "So Drew, excited about the Festival?" Second Question - "Tell me about Native theatre/literature in Canada. Third Question - "Cultural appropriation. Kinsella's gonna be there. Comments?"

When asked a question, I always try to be polite and answer it. Yes I do have opinions on the whole Kinsella thing. Yes I have read his stories and while I do consider him a gifted storyteller, he obviously doesn't write his Native stories with the same kind of love he puts into his baseball tales. Anybody who's read both and compared them can tell. and if there's no love involved in the stories you tell, why tell them? But I repeat, I am NOT gunning for Kinsella.

So there I am, being polite and answering these searing, journalistic questions (must have been a slow day at the O.J. trial) and this stuff starts popping up in print, on radio and television.

MuchMusic even did some sort of head-to-head debate between me and Kinsella by interviewing us at different times and asking us the same questions and intercutting between the two of us. I haven't seen it but I'm told it looked like an interesting debate.

It all came to a non-spectacular head one night at one of the social functions for the festival. I arrived somewhat late for the festivities and I had no sooner walked in the door when two of the publicists within a dozen seconds of each other came racing for me and quickly but quietly whispered in my ears "Kinsella's here!" My first reaction was "So what?"

I looked across the crowded room at where they were pointing and saw him. A tall thin chap with long blondish hair, mustache and beard, a cowboy hat wearing a striped shirt with a western bolo tie. He looked vaguely familiar but I couldn't place the memory; something about it seemed tinged with irony.

If by some chance we were placed in a conversational position, I had no idea what I would say to him. One Native writer friend had suggested I tell him that he can't write. Not only would that have been rude, but in my opinion, inaccurate. The man can write, but it's his choice and treatment of subject matter that I would question.

Another person, urging I remain neutral and unconfrontational, suggested I talk to him about baseball. However, there is no baseball to talk about and the game is about as important to me as Native self-government probably is to him. But these are now moot points.

To this day, even with all the press, I have absolutely no idea if he knows who I am. But during the entire festival - and I'm sure it was completely by accident - we never ended up sitting at the same table for dinner, or perchance talking together. y entire contact with him consisted of squeezing by him in a crowded room on my way to the bathroom. Our conversation involved a grand total of two scintillating words. "Excuse me."

Instead, the week passed and the man has long since left. I'm sure he's a nice man, and I'm sure he's as sick and tired of this whole damn thing as I am.

So contrary to rumors you may have heard, I have not put a contract out on him. I have not placed an ancient Ojibway curse on him.

I figure anybody who looks and dresses like George Armstrong Custer (I remembered) is a marked man anyways.