The Writer is convinced his current work will be a masterpiece. It’s a touching story about a 17 year-old Native woman named Sally who is abandoned in Toronto by her boyfriend. Desperate to make ends meet, she turns to prostitution. She starts taking drugs to ease the pain of her difficult life. Made pregnant by a john, she seriously considers committing suicide when she meets a white Priest who slowly wins her trust and helps her turn her life around.
Governor-General’s Award winning stuff.
Typing furiously, The Writer comes to the end of a page. “Pass me up another piece of paper, will you?” he says. “I’m really on a roll.” The Native hands him a piece of paper, which he immediately crumples up.
“That was no good,” The Writer remarks. “It had something on it. Could you pass me up another?”
The Native hands him another sheet of paper. On one side, in heavy block letters, The Writer reads: “READ THIS!” Hmm… The Writer turns the sheet over and reads, “Could you please move your chair a little? The legs are digging into my back.”
The Writer glares at the woman on whose back he’s working. “Don’t be so ungrateful,” he tells the Native. “Once my story is finished, it will sensitize people to the plight of Native women in this country, maybe even move people to help you…”
Another note comes up. “But, it’s my story!”
“Well, yes,” The Writer sputters, “I suppose it is your story in the very limited sense that you lived it. But, it becomes my story when I write it.”
Several minutes pass, The Writer impatiently waiting. Finally, a piece of paper is passed up on which is written: “It is my story. I should be the one to write it. But your publishing system discourages me from telling my own story.”
“Now, wait just a minute,” The Writer responds. “We have a free press in this country – anybody can write what they want. Nobody discourages – what?”
The Native, anticipating his objection, was furiously scribbling before he even started talking. She hands him another sheet. “I have no access to publishers, agents or the press,” it reads. “Your critics don’t take into account my creative traditions and your academics don’t want to include my work in their canons. Of course your system discourages Native storytellers – if it didn’t, we would be writing our own stories, not you!”
“Are you saying I shouldn’t be writing this story?” The Writer indignantly asks. The table subtly rises, a gentle sigh.
“Yeah, well, let me tell you something,” The Writer continues. “I’ve written stories in the voice of lesbians, Black poets, chicano fry cooks and s16 year-old waitresses, twelfth century knights, fifth dimensional Spartazoids and a pair of goldfish named Bruce and Edna. It’s my right to allow my imagination to go wherever it will – anybody who talks about putting limits on that is really talking about censorship!”
The Writer shakes in anger, causing the chair to dig deeper into The Native’s back. This makes the wait for the response that much longer, and, when it comes, it is in a shakier hand.
“Voice, foolish writer,” it reads. “This is not about keeping you from writing. Write whatever you desire. The question is: are you prepared to fight for my right to publish with same vigour you fight for your own?”
The Writer considers this. “Pass me up a piece of paper,” he answers, “and, when I’m finished this story, we’ll talk.”
The Native sighs. Her name, by the way, is Susan, not Sally. And, she was abandoned in Montreal, not Toronto. She did turn to prostitution, but it was the boyfriend who left her that made her pregnant, not a john. She was never serious about committing suicide, although she was grateful when she met The Writer, who slowly gained her trust with the promise that he would help her turn her life around.
Ah, well, You can’t expect somebody who hasn’t lived the experience to get all the details right.