Ireland and the First Nations Education Act

Dingle Peninsula

A number of years ago, I went on a cycling tour of the Dingle peninsula in western Ireland.  Dingle is located just north of the famous Ring of Kerry.  It is similar to Kerry but it doesn't have the traffic so it's ideal for bicycling.

It was breathtakingly beautiful. There were high meadows of flowers and a singing landscape of brooks at Conor Pass, the highest point in Ireland. Roads that clung to the side of seaside cliffs reminded me of the Cabot Trail of Nova Scotia. And everywhere were roadside hedges meters thick from centuries of growth and covered in the shocking pink vines of wild fuchsia.  My trip ended at Killarney National Park, one of the few forests remaining in Ireland.  I could almost see the Leprechauns in the wonderful tapestry of green that is Killarney.

A clochaun in Dingle

Woven into this landscape is the presence of a long history that includes the use of stone to build many meandering kilometers of dry stone fence. Here is a picture of a stone clochaun.  It is dug somewhat into the earth and it was surprisingly spacious inside.  I appreciated it's dryness and I'm sure the Celts living there did too as it rains every day along the coast.  Dry stone masonry doesn't use any mortar to cement the stone together. Rather it all stays together because each stone is chosen to fit like a piece in a jigsaw puzzle.  This clochaun has stood for about 900 years!

Fitzgerald's Pub, Castlegregory

History dogged me throughout the trip.  I went to Ireland hoping to find some descendants of distant relatives as my father's family came from Ireland. FitzGerald isn't a very common name here but over there, it's the equivalent of Smith.  There was a FitzGerald grocery store, a FitzGerald tavern and hardware, and FitzGeralds filled the cemeteries so my search was a lost cause.

But what I lost in terms of family history, I gained in terms of historical perspective.  As I sped down a very steep hill into the town of Dingle, I passed a sign advertising the Dingle Music Festival.  Yes, it is indeed possible to speed down a long escarpment on a fully loaded bicycle and possible too to get a flat tire.  Still as luck would have it, I was in time to hear the last evening of the festival and miracle-of-miracles, able to get a ticket. The Dingle Music Festival is far better known now and if you do go, don't take a chance on last-minute tickets.

Mary Black is well-known today but back then, she was popular only with the good people of Ireland. Mary sang both upbeat songs and dirges, laments expressing grief.  I remember one that spoke about young people who boarded boats never to return. Towns of young people, never returning. Generations effectively gone and lost to the typhus of the boats before the advent of a modern postal system allowed for continuing contact. For Mary and her compatriots, all this happened yesterday.  The Irish are still mourning young people lost centuries ago.

Afterward I spoke to Mary and explained that as an Irish descendant in Canada, I didn't have this sense of history.  My father told me that boarding that boat was the smartest thing his great-grandfather had done.  Mary told me about towns that held funerals for the young people embarking on those ships and how the dirges came from those many and constant funerals.

It became clear in the course of our short conversation that Mary and I had very different views of history. Her view was very long and detailed spanning many generations.  Mine was short and mostly unknown as both my father's parents died while he was a child.  I gave a little prayer of thanks to my unknown ancestors who had taken such risks to come to Canada.

As I listened to Trustee Peter Garrow speak about the Aboriginal significance of seven generations at the Ontario Public School Boards Association board of directors meeting this weekend, I thought of Mary. The board of directors is made up of thoughtful, caring trustees from around the province and it is a privilege to work with them.  Besides, I have an audience who seems to enjoy my terrible jokes.

Peter is of the Mohawk Nation Bear Clan, lives in Cornwall, and he teaches Aboriginal history.  As Peter explains it, when he was born, his great-grandfather was still alive. Peter hopes to live to see his great-grandchild.  This is the significance of seven generations, the generations a person can hope to know in a lifetime.  Like Mary, First Nations people think in the longer term.

As I heard Peter explain the new First Nations Education Act, I was appalled.  After advocating for Aboriginal education funding in an earlier post, the phrase that sprang to mind was be careful what you wish for.  I mean how is it that the government of Canadians, Canadians who pride ourselves on a sense of fairness, can impose such a system on Aboriginal peoples without consultation?  How can it be that the government provides less funding for children's education on reserves?  How is it that our government can require a set of educational standards that has little to do with First Nations, Inuit and Metis reality? And even after issuing the historic apology for residential schools, is this yet another attempt to assimilate Aboriginal peoples?

During my cycling trip to Ireland, I realized that I have less in common with the old than the new world. I am proud of our Canadian culture with it's many Aboriginal traditions that include town hall meetings and participatory democracy.  I recognize I live on Algonquin lands and am thankful to live in this beautiful country.  At 11 am on December 10, I will be joining with many others at Victoria Island to protest the government's First Nations Education Act.  Please join me.


The views expressed in this post are personal opinions only.

P.S. Every story needs some comic relief.  The background to this is that Tour de France teams were training in Ireland.  So without further ado, here is a pseudo-limerick (the meter isn't right) written in Limerick:

There was an old woman on bike
Less often would cycle than hike
Herself out of Limerick,
Passed by every young Tim or Dick
And even a Harry on trike.