Tamara Blesse
August 2023
Language is the means of communication between individuals. These elements of phonology, semantics, syntax, and pragmatics comprise any language’s dialect. Although language may differ in appearance and sound from other languages, our communication extends beyond humans and into the animal and natural realms. Ultimately, physical expression is the universal language between humans, animals, and even nature. Through the movements of upwardly curled smiles, frowning and elevated brows, tense jaws and downwardly drawn mouths. Even if the other person does not speak the same language as you, you can convey your emotions through your actions and facial expressions. I believe that nature communicates with us as humans and animals through the weather, the sun shining, quiet rain, gentle gushes of wind, or ferocious thunderstorms, eruptions of hot lava, hurricanes, and tornadoes. We cannot comprehend one other without these modes of communication. It is difficult to converse outside of the common languages spoken if you speak a language that is not readily spoken or taught. As a woodland cree speaker, I’ve found that speaking with the outside world of English may be tough to interpret and comprehend. I consider myself a proficient language keeper since I understand the conversations of my kokum and mosums, as well as my close family members who also speak Cree. But speaking back is frequently difficult for me; I know the basic foundations of holding a conversation, but delving into deeper and more intricate understandings of words and the way my dialect uses the sounds becomes difficult. There are times when I pay close attention to the mouth sounds of the words and try to remember the other sounds of words in order to piece them together and grasp what the words mean. I’m embarrassed that I don’t speak as well as my elder and even younger relatives and frequently feel humiliated that I can’t communicate with them. For many years, I thought of myself as a full fluent Cree speaker; it was only in the past five years that I modified my perspective to “yeah, I can speak, but not too much.” I’ve lowered my language skills since I couldn’t adequately translate every English word into Cree. I know that eventually, if I find the strength to forgive myself for how I feel presently, I will reclaim myself as a whole Cree speaker. I’m certain I’ll make it. Even if I’m an old kokum myself. Now, there are only so many words in Cree, and many of these phrases in English do not exist in my culture, but there are other ways we talk; we express what we see, smell, how something feels, and even taste. I know that other language keepers feel the same way, not being able to properly explain and articulate themselves to others for them to understand. This is particularly relevant in First Nations healthcare, where people speak their mother language solely in remote communities and even when they move to urban cities. To obtain the best treatment in nursing stations and hospitals, understanding is essential.
There are two perspectives that need to be understood. The first is that of the healthcare professional; they come into communities seeking to share their expertise with their patients in order to guarantee that their health is taken care of. The second point of view is that of a community member who has grown up speaking only a certain language and now needs to explain themselves and their health issues. In recent years, I would estimate the past 30 years, communities have pushed the use of English in order to engage with the common world that exists beyond their homelands. However, older generations only know their mother tongue, and some choose to only speak it. This is a barrier that arises in healthcare, when a translator must be present in patient talks in treatment rooms because the healthcare professional does not completely understand their patients. Because this is their initial sense of communication and understanding, healthcare professionals are able to observe their patients’ facial expressions and even discover how they are feeling through their bodily movements. It is critical that communities that speak their traditional languages be given the resources and even secure a job for a translator in healthcare spaces; it is often assumed that nation members who work in these spaces are the ones who can translate on the patients’ behalf, if needed. I’ve worked as a custodian at my community health centre for the previous six summers and am quite familiar with this barrier. My father is a registered nurse, and my mother is a licensed practitioner who worked in the homecare program. My parents worked at the community health centre for at least ten years combined. I remember circumstances in which my mother had to interpret on behalf of her home care clients and convert these exchanges into official healthcare terms in documentation and to her superiors. She is someone I see as a totally fluent Cree speaker, someone who can hear a word and comprehend it straight away, without having to pick apart the words like I do. I’ve also witnessed my father often attempt to learn the language in order to join in conversation, despite his broken replication to particular words in my language. I’ve seen him with patients, working extra hard to understand them through their thick accents and occasional Cree words. He often asks his patients to explain to him what that word means so he can learn in case he encounters it again in the future. Or he asks my mother what the words meant. These scenarios of their want to learn and be understood happen frequently in communities like mine. Because of what I’ve observed and the common experience I’ve had, I’ve taken a particular interest in this language barrier in my internship research. I feel as though I understand how the Cree language speaker feels, wanting to not just speak my language but also to be heard and understood. While also I understand how the healthcare professional feels, wanting to understand what their patients are saying because I, too, also want to be a part of the conversation and be helpful. “kinistohten ci?” is a phrase in my language that could formally translate to “do you understand?” However, based on my understanding of the language in my dialect, it could also be phrased as “you understand me right?” I’ve heard this statement from my kokum when she asked whether I understood what she wanted me to do or from my elder brother when he asked if what he said made sense to me. This phrase is a perfect example that, to me, encompasses the importance of implementing policies within health care that address the language barrier and encourage more proactive discussions from language keepers to explain their experiences of not feeling fully confident within the healthcare system, due to their inability to express themselves effectively, or having situations where they were unable to receive any care because of it. In addition, healthcare practitioners should be able to acquire further training or have the option of having a health care translator in each community who speaks their language to guarantee that they can provide the best treatment possible and feel confidence in themselves as a result. On August 16th, 2023, while I was working in my community again as a sub for my kokum who was the custodian. I saw my mosum, one of the community’s older elders, visit the nursing station, and he was someone I knew who spoke only cree; he could grasp certain phrases in English, but Cree was his primary mode of communication. I was walking down a hallway past the room where he was in when I overheard the nurses talk to him loudly, in a tone that told me they were trying to motivate him to tell them what was wrong or how he was feeling. I recognized the nurses’ tone; they were gentle yet assertive and spoke loudly enough for him to hear. And I remember thinking as I passed by that I wanted to help and thought of the work that my internship included, the language barrier, I thought, this was it, I was hearing and seeing it in front of me. I kept walking down the hall in my thoughts, and the homecare worker who had brought him in was also from my nation, so I recognized her. “Can you speak Cree?” she asked, and I felt an instant pang of anxiety, wondering “me?” “kinda, sorta, maybe?” I thought to myself. Unsure of my fluency. I asked her if Mosum needed someone who spoke full Cree to speak to the nurses, and she nodded, “No, I can’t, I don’t think my Cree is good enough” and she said “me either” and then asked for one of the nation workers, she was my aunt and she was older and could speak like my mum, and the nation worker knew that she could help but she couldn’t find her. “I’ll go look for her,” I said, and then I went through almost every room in the nursing station, silently panicking, thinking of my mosum and how much he must be trying to explain himself, and the nurses, who were probably upset that they couldn’t speak to their client. I still couldn’t find my aunt, and after several minutes, I see my mosum leave the nursing station, so I believed they had solved their language problem and he had gotten everything he needed. When I see him go, I felt glad since it indicated he was able to talk and was ready to go home, but my relief rapidly changed to sadness. I thought that if I spoke more Cree, I may be able to assist both him and the nurses. I returned to the custodian’s office, thinking about it and asking myself questions like, “Does this happen often?” “Who usually translates amongst the staff in that situation?” “What if there was no one here?” “Would the nurses have to use simple words or rely on body language?”. I felt helpless, like I couldn’t help in finding a solution.
But then I realized that through my internship, I could contribute to raising awareness of the language barrier. I may contribute to policy changes that benefit both communities and healthcare professionals by bringing in research that indicates how many other communities in Canada experience this. I believe that this barrier requires both sides to actively collaborate in order to achieve healthcare that incorporates and acknowledges these traditional languages into their education, as well as communities to push for nation members to attend school or even create jobs for a translator to be stationed in communities supported by healthcare providers. There are language barriers. They are not a historical issue. There are many languages that have survived despite colonialism’s attempt to eradicate them. We must continue to encourage these communities to communicate in their own languages while simultaneously teaching them to speak the widely spoken language of English. I recall hearing arguments in my community in which nation members expressed their discontent with kids who did not completely understand their language, such as myself. Now that I’m getting older, I’ve realized. The nation members’ criticism and anger stems from the colonial practices of residential schools and the fear of losing our culture, but specifically our language. They only desire that our teachings, traditions, and language are preserved by the youth, our future knowledge keepers. My family has always pushed me to obtain an education since I am able to incorporate both traditional and western knowledge into my schoolwork, and I realize now that they wanted me to be in places where I was formerly not welcome. To establish my own claim in this Western world since if I am here, my ancestors will be too. This internship experience has renewed my determination to speak Cree every day, through everything, and to try to think in Cree to keep practising. And this fire inside me will stay while I pursue my education. To be a part of destroying this language barrier within academia, in healthcare centers in First Nations communities, and within myself. So. Kinsitohten ci?
mattwildcat 