The entire concept of Canada, the United States of America, and a very official-looking border crossing with armed federal officers on each side is legitimately out of place. They aren’t supposed to be a thing over there.
Other details are less questionable.
There’s a river, a big one—you may have heard of it, the St. Lawrence River.
There are trees, tons of them, enough to build with, burn, carve and paddle around in.
There are bridges as well because it’s quicker than paddling across the river, although admittedly probably less fun.
It’s a nice patch of land. Not that I know anything about it, but I’d guess you can live off it. It looks fertile and hospitable enough.
And you’re supposed to move freely across this land, where countries and silly abstract administrative lines—international borders, provincial borders—were imposed.
These are colonial divisions.
Yet this is one community, Akwesasne, “Land Where the Partridge Drums”, Mohawk territory long before some clueless white dudes crossed the ocean and took whatever they wanted. Colonial governments imposed borders, took land, expropriated more of it and somehow managed to leave one community split between Ontario, Quebec and New York State.
So now parts of Akwesasne have reserve status in Canada and reservation/tribal land status in the United States. The Mohawk Council of Akwesasne represents the Canadian side, the Saint Regis Mohawk Tribe the U.S. side, and the traditional Mohawk Nation Council of Chiefs continues to operate according to Haudenosaunee governance traditions.
One community. Three systems of governance. Two countries. Two provinces and one state.
And because apparently that still wasn’t complicated enough, the Quebec districts of Snye and St. Regis are effectively cut off by road from the rest of Quebec. Depending on where you’re coming from, getting there can mean crossing into the United States just to reach another part of the same community.
“Powwow in Akwesasne tomorrow. Forgot to tell you.”
I would probably have had no idea Akwesasne existed—much less how to pronounce it—if I hadn’t realized at some point in my Canadian life that Indigenous communities are thriving around me and people from those communities can live right next door.
“What time?” I texted back. “Kind of want to go.”
Final plans were made between 1:36 a.m. and 1:43 a.m. because neither of us can sleep and apparently organize our lives like grownups.
And the next day, I crossed a driveway, a tiny strip of grass, and found my neighbour/friend waiting for me.
“Did you take your camera?”
“Just the phone. I don’t want to intrude and shove the big Nikon in people’s faces.”
“I think it’s okay.”
“I think I’m an outsider.”
Despite the name, the Akwesasne International Powwow wasn’t held in Akwesasne itself but across the river, in Cornwall, a 90-minute drive from Ottawa. It’s a small town, by world standards, but I was unusually excited by the destination. Canada does small towns very well; I often find them more interesting than the three or four big Canadian cities foreigners can place on the map.
I wondered out loud who lived in these houses sitting alone somewhere, nowhere, between Ottawa and Cornwall.
She wondered how many people would be there, and who would show up.
We wondered about life in general, this thing we’re apparently still supposed to master even at 43 and 50.
And the next thing you know, we crossed train tracks, drove past the picturesque St. Andrew’s Church and were already in Cornwall.
Cornwall is Tsikaná:taien, by the way.
Five or so kilometres farther on, by the river, we were late to a party already in full swing. Oh, people had shown up all right. We could barely find a parking spot between the RVs and SUVs, most sporting Indigenous decals or licence plates.
People had come from all over Canada and the U.S. There were plenty of Ontario, Quebec and New York State plates, but I also spotted Kentucky, Ohio, Yukon and Florida—the latter might have belonged to a Canadian snowbird, mind you.
We paid the $10 entrance fee and got our hands stamped.
“Have fun!”
Vendors from all over North America had set up pop-up stalls near the entrance, selling colourful handmade skirts and jackets, orange “Every Child Matters” T-shirts, beaded accessories, fox pelts, leather goods, jewellery and more.
We stopped once, twice, three times because everything was so exquisite and unique—and very exotic to me.
“Okay, we can shop later.”
But we were drawn in by the drums and the music, and we made our way to the circle at the edge of the park where the dance competition was taking place.
I glanced at the handwritten program. “Stick dance. All smoke dancers. Trad, jingle, fancy.”
Okay, never mind, I’d research later. “Fastest dance on two feet.” That sounded… exhausting and fun.
Standing there watching dances and a competition I didn’t quite understand could have been boring, but I was in awe.
The regalia. Oh, my God, the regalia. Yeah, I get it, it’s traditional, so “common” in a way in the community, but for me it was the most amazing thing ever. So much colour, so much texture, so many details that clearly meant something, even when I didn’t know what.
Women looked completely at ease in their exquisite ribbon dresses and ribbon skirts, moccasins and intricate beadwork, just occasionally pausing to adjust a couple of feathers tucked into a beaded barrette holding a thick strand of hair.
Some of the men wore ribbon shirts, leggings and moccasins, some with a traditional Mohawk kastowa rising sharply above their heads, its feathers impossible to miss.
How many hours of work had gone into each piece?
And so they danced, we watched, and the energy never dropped.
It was chill too. I lost count of how many people asked me if I was enjoying the event, and they seemed to care.
No idea who won.
Culture did, in my opinion.
I bought a dream catcher and a medicine bag.
They come in handy in the world we live in.
And we drove back to Ottawa in the dark, later than planned, because we had felt alive there.
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