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{"title":"Home and away","authors":"J. Richardson","doi":"10.1201/9781351139687-6","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1201/9781351139687-6","url":null,"abstract":"The full-text may be used and/or reproduced, and given to third parties in any format or medium, without prior permission or charge, for personal research or study, educational, or not-for-pro t purposes provided that: • a full bibliographic reference is made to the original source • a link is made to the metadata record in DRO • the full-text is not changed in any way The full-text must not be sold in any format or medium without the formal permission of the copyright holders. Please consult the full DRO policy for further details.","PeriodicalId":306230,"journal":{"name":"Place and Identity","volume":"48 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2018-09-05","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"128185839","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
Since the 1950s the rural-urban migration among Indigenous peoples across Canada has steadily increased with over half of the Indigenous population living in Canadian cities today (Howard and Proulx 2011). The predominant narrative in anthropological literature suggests that Indigenous peoples in urban environments risk cultural assimilation. This narrative, however, overlooks the transcendence of Indigeneity between rural and urban spaces, which have lead scholars to challenge notions of cultural abandonment when Indigenous peoples migrate to the city (Howard and Proulx 2011; Lawrence 2002; Newhouse and Peters 2003; Peters and Wilson 2003; Watson 2007). This paper will explore the ways in which urban Indigenous peoples in Canada construct, connect, and reinforce their identity within an urban environment. To approach these questions, this paper begins by exploring the historical context in which Indigenous urbanization has been situated. A theoretical framework of Indigeneity and place will be discussed, followed by an introduction to the emergence of Indigenous-run organizations nationwide, such as Friendship Centres. The Métis First Nations Friendship Centre in Saskatoon and the urban Inuit organizations in Ottawa will be showcased as exemplifying the dynamism and distinctiveness of urban Indigenous identities.
{"title":"Feeling at home","authors":"J. Richardson","doi":"10.1201/9781351139687-2","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1201/9781351139687-2","url":null,"abstract":"Since the 1950s the rural-urban migration among Indigenous peoples across Canada has steadily increased with over half of the Indigenous population living in Canadian cities today (Howard and Proulx 2011). The predominant narrative in anthropological literature suggests that Indigenous peoples in urban environments risk cultural assimilation. This narrative, however, overlooks the transcendence of Indigeneity between rural and urban spaces, which have lead scholars to challenge notions of cultural abandonment when Indigenous peoples migrate to the city (Howard and Proulx 2011; Lawrence 2002; Newhouse and Peters 2003; Peters and Wilson 2003; Watson 2007). This paper will explore the ways in which urban Indigenous peoples in Canada construct, connect, and reinforce their identity within an urban environment. To approach these questions, this paper begins by exploring the historical context in which Indigenous urbanization has been situated. A theoretical framework of Indigeneity and place will be discussed, followed by an introduction to the emergence of Indigenous-run organizations nationwide, such as Friendship Centres. The Métis First Nations Friendship Centre in Saskatoon and the urban Inuit organizations in Ottawa will be showcased as exemplifying the dynamism and distinctiveness of urban Indigenous identities.","PeriodicalId":306230,"journal":{"name":"Place and Identity","volume":"158 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2018-09-05","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"122165390","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
The war was hunting him. He knew this deep in the folds of his brain and far down inside the hidden pathways of his nerves, but he tried to shake these instincts free and look at the instrument panel in front of him. He focused on flying and refused to think of the flak that was detonating around his aircraft in frightening bursts of black. He held the U-shaped yoke with both hands in order to keep everything steady, everything stable, but the whole plane bucked and jolted. The sky cracked open in puffy explosions. Jagged shards of steel zipped through the air. Planes around him fell. Lieutenant Odd Englebretson looked at his instrument panel (altitude, air speed, fuel) and the numbers that kept him aloft all seemed good. He and his co-pilot banked hard and circled around the way they had just come. Odd allowed himself a moment to glance down at the firestorm raging below in Nazi Germany. Docks, ships, warehouses, submarine pens, syn-thetic oil factories and roads were all ablaze in brilliant shades of orange. Bomb bursts marched across factories and enormous shockwaves rippled across the city. The whole harbor boiled in a sea of punishing fire as a column of black smoke vented upwards. It was the color of used motor oil. It foamed and lifted. The 321st Bomb Group had just dropped over thirty tons of TNT onto Hamburg and, now, they were on their way back to the green fields of England. The return journey wouldn’t be easy. Odd and his crew had a blown out engine—the propeller spun lazily as greasy smoke vented from it, and there was tremendous drag on the right wing as he fought to keep everything level, everything purring. He was surrounded by other olive drab airplanes that were also in various states of damage. Odd realized his tongue was dry and he licked his cracked lips. He turned to his co-pilot. “How’s engine three?” he asked, adjusting his rubber air mask. “Think we can we make it home?” Odd pointed the snout of his bomber towards an imaginary dot on the horizon and, like the other B-17 Flying Fortresses thrumming around him, he pushed towards it, dreaming of a cigarette and a tall glass of whiskey. England and all of its safety was just beyond the curvature of the earth. All he had to do was arc towards it, all he had to do was keep the gyroscope steady and let the simple physics of air speed and thrust work their magic. For now, the long slow fall to earth was being denied. “How’s engine three?” he asked again. His co-pilot, Finn O’Brien, leaned towards the window. “Torn to shit. We got holes out there the size of fucking baseballs.” His Boston accent was strong and he stretched out the word baseballs. “Think we’ll make it?” “Hard to say, skipper.” Engine number three was only one problem to worry about. There was also a large, tangled mess hanging and flapping in front of Odd. Although he couldn’t be sure, it seemed like most of the nosecone had been torn off. A few minutes ago, they’d taken a direct hit with flak and the entire Plexig
{"title":"Going home","authors":"J. Richardson","doi":"10.1201/9781351139687-8","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1201/9781351139687-8","url":null,"abstract":"The war was hunting him. He knew this deep in the folds of his brain and far down inside the hidden pathways of his nerves, but he tried to shake these instincts free and look at the instrument panel in front of him. He focused on flying and refused to think of the flak that was detonating around his aircraft in frightening bursts of black. He held the U-shaped yoke with both hands in order to keep everything steady, everything stable, but the whole plane bucked and jolted. The sky cracked open in puffy explosions. Jagged shards of steel zipped through the air. Planes around him fell. Lieutenant Odd Englebretson looked at his instrument panel (altitude, air speed, fuel) and the numbers that kept him aloft all seemed good. He and his co-pilot banked hard and circled around the way they had just come. Odd allowed himself a moment to glance down at the firestorm raging below in Nazi Germany. Docks, ships, warehouses, submarine pens, syn-thetic oil factories and roads were all ablaze in brilliant shades of orange. Bomb bursts marched across factories and enormous shockwaves rippled across the city. The whole harbor boiled in a sea of punishing fire as a column of black smoke vented upwards. It was the color of used motor oil. It foamed and lifted. The 321st Bomb Group had just dropped over thirty tons of TNT onto Hamburg and, now, they were on their way back to the green fields of England. The return journey wouldn’t be easy. Odd and his crew had a blown out engine—the propeller spun lazily as greasy smoke vented from it, and there was tremendous drag on the right wing as he fought to keep everything level, everything purring. He was surrounded by other olive drab airplanes that were also in various states of damage. Odd realized his tongue was dry and he licked his cracked lips. He turned to his co-pilot. “How’s engine three?” he asked, adjusting his rubber air mask. “Think we can we make it home?” Odd pointed the snout of his bomber towards an imaginary dot on the horizon and, like the other B-17 Flying Fortresses thrumming around him, he pushed towards it, dreaming of a cigarette and a tall glass of whiskey. England and all of its safety was just beyond the curvature of the earth. All he had to do was arc towards it, all he had to do was keep the gyroscope steady and let the simple physics of air speed and thrust work their magic. For now, the long slow fall to earth was being denied. “How’s engine three?” he asked again. His co-pilot, Finn O’Brien, leaned towards the window. “Torn to shit. We got holes out there the size of fucking baseballs.” His Boston accent was strong and he stretched out the word baseballs. “Think we’ll make it?” “Hard to say, skipper.” Engine number three was only one problem to worry about. There was also a large, tangled mess hanging and flapping in front of Odd. Although he couldn’t be sure, it seemed like most of the nosecone had been torn off. A few minutes ago, they’d taken a direct hit with flak and the entire Plexig","PeriodicalId":306230,"journal":{"name":"Place and Identity","volume":"416 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2018-09-05","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"114581475","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
{"title":"Home is in the heart","authors":"J. Richardson","doi":"10.1201/9781351139687-7","DOIUrl":"https://doi.org/10.1201/9781351139687-7","url":null,"abstract":"","PeriodicalId":306230,"journal":{"name":"Place and Identity","volume":"11 1","pages":"0"},"PeriodicalIF":0.0,"publicationDate":"2018-09-05","publicationTypes":"Journal Article","fieldsOfStudy":null,"isOpenAccess":false,"openAccessPdf":"","citationCount":null,"resultStr":null,"platform":"Semanticscholar","paperid":"114739952","PeriodicalName":null,"FirstCategoryId":null,"ListUrlMain":null,"RegionNum":0,"RegionCategory":"","ArticlePicture":[],"TitleCN":null,"AbstractTextCN":null,"PMCID":"","EPubDate":null,"PubModel":null,"JCR":null,"JCRName":null,"Score":null,"Total":0}
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