Shame Day's On Its Way!

Orange Shirt Day is September 30. Yes, it's awkward, but we need to talk about it.

Hey Folks,

Well, Shame Day’s on its way. Have you got a snazzy new Orange Shirt to wear?

If you don’t know what Orange Shirt Day is, go read something else. You’re better off not knowing about any of this.

If you do know about Shame Day, and know that Canada’s weird “Murderous Nuns” Psy-Op has been exposed, keep reading.

The fact is that this was a major historical event in which all levels of government conspired to spread disinformation on a massive scale.

Yeah, yeah, I called it spreading disinformation. I know that something us conspiracy theorists get accused of, but in this case, the glove fits. There’s a lesson here - the Powers That Shouldn’t Be like to aggressively accuse of whatever they’re guilty of. It’s a form of misdirection that puts innocent people on the defensive. It’s surprising that it works, but clearly it does.

I appeared on the Grimerica Show last year to talk about how Shame Day is a Psy Op, and I’m pleased to announce that I’ll be appearing again this year.

I’ve got a lot of ground to cover. I’m not a historian, but most Canadian historians are too scared to set the record straight, and someone’s got to do it. And I do know a thing or two about a thing or two. So I guess the job falls to me.

And if you didn’t know, Tom Flanagan put a book out which blows the lid off the “Murderous Nuns” Narrative. The cat’s out of the bag, folks. I know this is awkward, but you’re either for truth or you’re not. The government high-jacked the narrative around residential schools in a bizarre move that deserves careful examination.

If you don’t know who Tom Flanagan is, you should. He was the power behind the throne in the Conservative Party during the Stephen Harper years, and I suspect that future prime minister Pierre Poilievre was one of his proteges.

He’s also widely known as “that child porn guy”.

What I have for you today is an excerpt of a book written by an author by the name of John C.A. Manley, who has contributed to Nevermore several times before.

In 2020, he wrote a novel called Much Ado About Corona.

Here’s a synopsis:

Summer 2020. The first lockdown has ended in the small Canadian town of Moosehead. Twenty-four-year-old Vincent McKnight emerges from three months of stay-at-home orders into a surreal new normal of multi-coloured face masks, acrid hand sanitizers, and germaphobic neighbours standing six feet apart.

The new normal becomes even stranger when Vince’s Indigenous grandfather sends him to buy a loaf of bread from the town’s new baker. Stefanie Müller speaks five languages, has beautiful blue eyes… and is a certified conspiracy theorist. She believes the pandemic is a hoax to justify totalitarian “public health” measures.

But when the local cop pulls out his taser, Stefanie’s dystopian premonitions no longer seem so theoretical. And when the restrictions threaten Granddad’s life, Vince finds himself going face-to-mask with the emerging police state—forced to choose whether to follow senseless rules or to follow his pounding heart.

Because I knew that he was knowledgeable about residential schools, I asked him to write something about the residential school debate.

He sent me a review of a history book called A National Crime, which we published last year.

Today I’m pleased to present an excerpt from Much Ado About Corona.

And I wish you all a Very Happy Shame Day! ‘Tis the season.

Err… that sounds weird, doesn’t it?

Okay, I wish you all a Very Shameful Shame Day!

How’s that? Better?

Ah well, it’ll have to do. If anyone can help me figure out the best way to celebrate a holiday commemorating crimes against humanity, let me know!

In Solidarity,

Crow Qu’appelle

Ojibwe Dejá Vu

An excerpt from chapter 7 of Much Ado About Corona by John C.A. Manley, which takes place shortly after the first COVID lockdown ended in Canada in July 2020....

Grandad rarely spoke of it. But he knew government could and had hurt children. He was one of them. In 1945, “pale-faced strangers with beards” came to his family’s camp near the town of Minaki in Northwestern Ontario.

“The fish bellies came,” said Grandad, speaking now with sudden clarity. He sat up in his wheelchair. A cool breeze fanned the grassy lawn of the nursing home. “I’d never seen the flying machines up close,” he explained. “Only in the air. It was so much bigger than I thought. But it came down and landed on the water like a duck. The fish bellies came out. They had guns. They took Memengwaa. They took me. They shot at my father. They took us into the sky. I thought they would take us to their heaven.”

Instead of heaven, he and his sister were brought to hell: Cecilia Jeffrey Indian School, on Shoal Lake. They called it a school. But it was during World War II and there was little money available for educating the native people. Grandad said they earned their daily bread working in the shop, making furniture. The buildings were so overcrowded and unclean, tuberculosis was as common as the cold. Grandad had only been ten. His sister was just seven. He survived, she did not.

There wasn’t much known about how Great-Aunt Memengwaa died. Grandad once showed me the records, which he kept in a file folder, yellow with age. One document said she had TB. Another said she had an accident on a staircase.

“The government,” said Grandad, “took child away from parent, and parent away from child. They made us build chairs all day. All day I sawed wood and hammered nails. Over and over. And if I made a mistake, Sister Tam hit me so hard I’d fall on the floor.”

I sat back down in the chair and leaned forward with my el- bows on my knees. “But the government wasn’t trying to kill you; just, well, assimilate you.”

“Assimilation,” said Grandad with a bob of his head.

“It means to help people fit in.”

“It means extermination,” he responded with no lack of wit.

He then sang quietly, “No more Indians jumping on the bed.”

I sat back down on the floppy chair.

“Never doubt what evils are possible in this world,” said Grandad slowly. “And what good it will bring out in those who try to stop it.”

“Five minutes!” yelled Claudia.

Turning, I saw Claudia pushing the other resident, in her wheelchair, up the ramp. I shot her an annoyed look before turning back to Grandad.

“Listen, Grandad, I’ll be getting my own place soon. When I do, I told you, you can come and live with me. I’ll break you out of here.”

Grandad smiled. “You lost your job.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But plants will open again. They all need welders. Until then the government is sending me cheques.”

“That’s what they did to us, too.” Grandad nodded slowly. “They took our life away; then sent us money to buy stuff from their stores.”

I intertwined my fingers together. “I saw a Help Wanted sign today. I’m not sure how much it pays.”

“Better to earn less money than get more free money.”

A blue jay landed above on the canopy. It whispered a soft conglomeration of clicks, chucks, whirs and whines.

“Hear that, Grandad?” I said. “A little bird just told me things will get better. The government makes mistakes, but I don’t think there’s any malice. Call me naive, but I’m staying positive.”

“I remember,” he said, his eyes gazing into the past, “people from the village told us that warriors in red suits and shamans in black robes were taking the children. They had holy books and said they were saving the kids from going to hell. My parents didn’t believe the people from the village. They didn’t believe anyone could do such a thing because they’d never steal children.”

He paused and pulled down his mask. I saw his beardless face, and puckered lips. “They didn’t prepare. They didn’t protect us. We could have hid. We could have fought back.”

Grandad’s eyes refocused as if coming to the present. “I don’t know if Dandelion is right about the things she says about this new disease. The government may be protecting us. There are good people everywhere—even in government. But they have so much power. And scaring people only brings them more power.” His eyes became wider. “Don’t be scared, Vincent. You are not a boy anymore. Make government prove what they say.”

He inhaled and started humming a tune I did not know. I listened, not sure where he was. When the humming died away he added:

“Find out what she knows. Find out what is true. Not what you wish was true. Be brave.”

I squirmed on the wobbly seat. “She says I’m a turtle hiding in my shell.”

“Miskwaadesi,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. “Huh?”

“Turtle,” he translated.

My Ojibwemowin was limited to a dozen words.

“My people tell how the whole world was sunk by water gods who became jealous when Geezhigo-Quae became pregnant.”

“She’s the one who lives on the moon, isn’t she?”

“She was...” And suddenly his eyes glazed over again. “She was on the moon.” He was searching for words.

I frowned. Why does he go in and out like this?

“She was going to bear the first children for Manitou,” I continued for him, having heard the story many times. “The water gods feared her children would be too powerful. They flooded the earth so her kids would have no land on which to live. But Geezhigo-Quae smeared dirt on the back of a turtle and it became North America.”

Grandad smiled and nodded. “Miskwaadesi carries the burden of the world on his shell. He can’t hide from it. It goes with him everywhere.”

“So, you’re saying I should take it as a compliment?”

He cocked his head and furrowed his brow in non-under- standing.

“Being called a turtle, I mean.”

“Sorry! Time’s up.” Claudia called out as she marched down the front steps.

I looked at my watch. “I thought you were Latino?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She gripped the handles of Grandad’s wheelchair.

“Latinos are always late, not early.” I held out my cellphone, showing her the time.

“Hey!” said Claudia, in a tone that almost felt like a slap. “I have only two designated areas and twenty appointments.”

“All right, all right,” I said, holding my hand up. “Book me for the same time tomorrow.” Then directing my eyes at Grandad. “I’ll see you then.”

“No can do,” said Claudia. “Weekend’s booked solid.”

“When’s the next opening?”

“Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?” I exclaimed.

“Two tents, eighty residents,” snapped Claudia. “You do the math.”

“All right,” I conceded, “Which time on Wednesday?”

“I don’t know. Call the front desk.”

I sighed and crossed my arms.

Claudia pulled back on Grandad’s wheelchair and spun him around. As she headed for the ramp, I walked beside him, put- ting my hand on his shoulder.

“Unless I have a job by Wednesday,” I said, “I’ll see you then. Either way, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Six feet,” barked Claudia.

I withdrew my hand from his shoulder.

“Bye, Miskwaadesi,” said Grandad raising his hand.

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John C. A. Manley is the author of the novel Much Ado About Corona which Patrick Corbett, former director/producer for W-5, Beachcombers and Dateline describes as "a ripping story of courage, awakening and love (with some good laughs thrown in) all in the time of COVID. As with the truth, you won’t want to put Much Ado About Corona down." Purchase copies in ebook, paperback and hardcover formats at: MuchAdoAboutCorona.com