CURRENT ISSUE

Unlearn & Relearn:
Lareina Abbott interviews Dayne Brelyn

One of my favourite things about this essay is how it captures the intrinsic trickster quality of the Métis people in general. You note that in the music, “there’s a pattern, and then we break it,” and in speaking to your ancestors, that when they told them “not to dance on Sundays, and you did anyways, that you were right to do so.” How do you identify with this trickster spirit?

I absolutely love this question! I think, before I even knew about that quality of the Métis people, I felt connected to this trickster spirit. I have always enjoyed a certain playfulness in the way I move through life, and a lot of that manifests in a subversion of expectations and a pushing of boundaries. Most of the time, when people meet me, I come across reserved and almost shy. And yet, I love to do things that put me in the centre of attention, as I mentioned in my piece, like music, theatre, etc. I think this subversion of expectations of seeming unassuming, and then grabbing the spotlight like “Did you know I had this in me?” is quite fun. And, especially in my ambitions, I have a quiet determination not to accept certain aspects or rules as they are. For example, for my English Honours thesis, I was the first student at UVic to study a videogame for my thesis and present my thesis as a video essay (versus a traditional essay). When I started on my Honours Thesis, I wasn’t sure if that could be done, but I wanted to try and I was lucky to have a supervisor that supported me wanting to shake things up. And now, after studying English and Writing, I’ve switched things up to study Computer Science! So, I really feel like this trickster spirit has empowered me throughout many facets of my life.

One powerful line in this piece is, “without sheet music to guide my mind, I’m discovering how music lives inside of me.” How do you think this serves as a greater metaphor for how colonialism has tried to shape the thinking of Indigenous peoples and how we can break free of that thinking?

For me, breaking free of that thinking was a very uncomfortable process, and one that is still ongoing. Growing up, I had no Indigenous references for how to be or understand the world around me, and so I was reliant on the ways of knowing that were taught to me both explicitly and implicitly. And it can be a little scary to rattle your own foundation. But I made an intentional investment in challenging myself to unlearn and relearn through taking classes on Indigenous literature and storytelling, reading Indigenous literature, and participating in my Métis community. I think it’s hard to answer this question directly because my avenue to “breaking free” was storytelling and fiddle, but I think it could be anything as long as one is intentional about receiving what that thing has to say. I mean, it’s amazing all the lessons I’ve learned through Indigenous storytelling, both from the stories themselves and the philosophy surrounding storytelling. That, along with fiddle, have allowed me to find a guide that’s more innate and rooted in my being. I’m very grateful for that, and I’m still learning.

Your essay reflects on the importance of names, and at the end, you address your ancestors directly. You write that “As I record their names, I feel like they are safe with me again, no longer lost to time.” Nisi Shawl wrote that “culture is the only resource remaining after colonization has removed the precious metals from the ground or the ground from the inhabitants’ feet.” I’ve learned that as a diaspora, the Métis people connect via our names rather than our lands, as our lands were taken away. What kind of power do you think names have, especially the names of our ancestors?

Names hold an importance to me that I’m still trying to articulate. First, I think it’s the idea of remembrance. Similar to what I wrote, I feel a sacredness in preserving the names of my ancestors. Names are how we’re known, and so knowing my ancestors' names is akin to knowing them and remembering them. It also makes my own existence more concrete; I came from these people, I’m here because of these people, and those before them. I have a dire need to keep this as a prominent understanding of myself. I am Métis on my father’s side, and I am Mexican and Jewish on my mother’s side. This has made life confusing at times, especially about who I am and how I fit in, and my family’s journeys have led to many names lost, especially women’s names. I feel emotional thinking about the women that came before me in my family, and often find discovering names an emotional experience. I really feel that the names of my ancestors are a reclamation of history, knowledge, and family.

You write about silence as if it is something almost physical, a concrete object, taking the place of other truths, as if it is something inherited. Métis fiddle music brought me to the truth of my youth, and to the truth of my culture and my place in it, through the uniqueness and the passion of the live sound. You write that, “I am tired of the quiet, I am tired of the silence. I want to be loud.” Is fiddle music your way of being loud? Are there other ways that we need to be loud, as Métis people in a world that does not know the Métis culture and how it is unique?

Fiddle is definitely one way. I think the way I am loudest though is declaring my indigeneity in everyday spaces. Growing up I witnessed a lot of shame around being Métis, and the opposite of that for me is perhaps, pride or confidence? At the very least, a willingness to let that part of me be seen. As Métis people, I think we need to keep bringing ourselves to the spaces we occupy, in all the ways that means.

On National Indigenous Peoples Day in 2024, you experienced a spontaneous music jam. These moments used to be common in our culture, as our ancestors brought their instruments to every gathering, and as “every family had a beloved fiddle player.” How do you think we can make these “spontaneous moments” of cultural connection more frequent in our current world?

Moments like these require some willingness and vulnerability to put yourself out there to initiate a spontaneous moment of cultural connection, and these moments also require a commitment from all parties to engage in and nurture that moment. So, I feel creating these moments within a community is a shared responsibility. But I also feel there are opportunities for spontaneous moments of cultural connection across cultures. If you bring a willingness to share, you may be surprised what bonds you to others!

Your bio indicates that you are studying Computer Science and are a lover of video games and interactive narratives. As a writer of Indigenous Futurism, I’m very interested to know if you could imagine a video game containing elements of futuristic Métis culture and fiddle music?

One hundred percent! This is honestly a part of learning Computer Science and game design that really excites me. I want to be a part of seeing more Indigenous and Métis influence in the game industry, and I very much hope that one day there will be a game with obvious influence from and elements of Métis culture that has my name in the credits.

 

 

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