Excluded from My Culture

Norval Morriseau died today in Toronto at the age of 75.

Morriseau, an Ojibwa from north of Lake Superior in Northern Ontario, was arguably the best artist this country has produced in the past half century, perhaps ever. He was insightful, original and entirely fresh, in a way so few of our artists have been.

As a northerner, I want to exalt in his talent and feel a kinship with his creativity.

Unfortunately, because Morrisseau was an Aboriginal person, my wishes are not to be. I am not a First Nations person. Definitely not Ojibwa. And therefore, not eligible to share in the celebration of Morrisseau's life.

It is an unfortunate fact of this time and place that First Nations people have become exclusionary to the point that even those who love and cherish them and our history together cannot ever partake in their triumphs.

I am not Aboriginal. Therefore, sadly, Norval Morrisseau is nothing to me.

Although we share a history, a great history that speaks of the founding of this country, we do not share a present. They don't want me. Or acknowledge me. I am forever excluded from their life.

So, as far as I'm concerned, Norval Morrisseau might have been Finnish. Or Czech. Or Japanese.

Pity.

I might have liked his work. If I had been allowed to.