In Conversation with Jeanette Lean — Ruminations on Cree
“Cole, reading is my one greatest learning.
I truly hope you will find and learn much from this book. Enjoy.”
— Jeanette Lean
Written by Cole Buhler
My name is Cole Buhler. Raised on the grasslands of the Peace Region on Treaty No. 8 Territory, I’m nêhiyaw (ᓀᐦᐃᔭᐤ) | Cree) through both my nôkhoms. I graduated from the journalism program at MacEwan University while taking courses in Scotland and Japan — where I learned in English, German and Japanese.
Language shapes us; it’s the foundation of everything we are. Language is math, art, and the essence of empathy — of community-building and love. Every time we walk into a book shop, a library or a cafe and pick up a new book we open ourselves up to a sense of radical, rudimentary affinity for the human spirit. In the west, under colonial rule, our education in language is often learned formally: a set of rules, style guides and isolation.
In nêhiyawêwin (ᓀᐦᐃᔭᐍᐏᐣ), language is Natural Law. It comes from the Land, our Elders and communities. It’s a communal, collective form of learning, prioritizing connection — opposed to rigid, individualistic westernisms. It’s our Ways of Knowing and Being.
To celebrate National Indigenous History Month, I sat down for tea with Jeanette Lean, a retired Cree language and culture instructor who previously taught nêhiyawêwin in amiskwaciwâskahikan (Edmonton) to students in elementary and junior high language programs for over 20 years.
I greeted Jeanette with tobacco and she gifted me with Fred Sasakamoose’s Call me Indian — a story of survival, resilience and triumph. For all of my formal learning, and like a lot of our kin, I can’t speak nêhiyawêwin. Receiving this book felt like it came at the right time. Gracious and welcoming, Jeanette spoke with intention — I immediately felt like she could be my kokum.
Born in Elk Point and a member of ayiki-sâkahikan (ᐊᔨᑭᓵᑲᐦᐃᑲᐣ | Frog Lake First Nation), Jeanette was raised alongside three sisters and five brothers by her parents Mary Catherine Stanley and Peter “Pīchan” Stanley. Together, they taught their children traditionally in nêhiyawêwin — commonly referred to by the settler definition as ‘Plains Cree’.
Home to more than 1,500 People who speak nêhiyawêwin as their first language, amiskwaciwâskahikan is currently experiencing an increase in plurilingual learners — many of whom are connecting with nêhiyawêwin and their cultures for the first time.
“I truly believe our roots play a role in who we are and what we do with our lives,” says Jeanette warmly. “My parents and ancestors gave me the greatest gift — to speak my Cree language. It’s in our bloodlines — it’s our identity; it’s who we are as First Nations People.”
{“The Story of the Trapper”, a story of Peter “Pīchan” Stanley shared by Jeanette Lean}
It was nearing the end of winter. The snow was going to start melting soon. Peter the trapper put on his plaid jacket, warm pants, cap and his warmest boots, with his rabbit skin mitts. He placed his gunny sack with a rope attached on his back. He thought to himself he would be able to carry his beavers, muskrats and traps. Today was the day to collect the traps before it started melting. Spike, his dog, was excited as he always goes with his master on his trapline.
Connecting through language
I grew up disconnected from nêhiyaw worldviews. It’s led me to speak about language and its inherently connected culture with a sense of yearning. Even then, it’s a bad faith argument with myself, because the colonially-manufactured, pan-Indigenous experience persists in the absence of culture. In honesty, I endure a North-American Experience defined by post-everything ideologies (post-capitalism organizes our bodies in time, valuing what we produce rather than giving us space to express ourselves culturally, individually).
This may be an imposed-upon experience sure, but it’s all I have. The language of my nôhkoms are stored in that experience — packed in tightly between episodes of the Golden Girls, rolling cigarettes in that stapler-looking thing and an onslaught of traumatic, settler-colonial experiences.
It was a beautiful, sunny day and the snow sparkled like diamonds. Peter and Spike walked on the ice near the edge of the lake where the beavers had built houses. They came to the first trap and it was empty, so Peter placed it in the sack. He remembered he had set eight traps in the area. So, one-by-one he collected the traps. He managed to catch two beavers and one muskrat. As he was nearing the last trap, he lost track of Spike. Spike always ran ahead. Unable to see Spike, he called out a few times — still no sign of his dog.
So how do we create space for that language? By reaching into our genetic memory to tell stories — stories tethering us to our ancestors, even though their languages may be silhouettes in the margins.
“My dad was a hard working man — a trapper, a bus driver … he had all these different skills,” says Jeanette. “One of the things he always said was ‘kimatohnäkan apacihta kwayas’ which means ‘use your mind in a good way.’ As I got older I knew what he meant: you have to use your mind in a good way — as long as you're healthy, independent and learning to survive … because that’s how we got by in everyday life. When I was an instructor, I used to call him and say ‘how do I say this word?’ Those are the things I miss. I called him ‘my dictionary’, because he was my dictionary. I could call him up and ask him a word and I’d have all the answers. We miss those kinds of role models.”
Storytelling as Ceremony
When Jeanette and I spoke, she reminded me that ‘tobacco always goes first’ — an offering for Land and Knowledge in every language. It’s a reminder of how storytelling — lingual cultures — sustain the Land. Language is spiritual: it has spirit. Although it can be difficult for some Urban Indigenous Peoples to practice this — as we often live in spaces that deny us access to Land, Language and Culture — we persist through storytelling.
Finally he listened and noticed Spike had fallen through the ice — a few feet from where he was walking. Suddenly he heard what sounded like ice cracking. He immediately got down, slid and moved backward away from the crack in the lake. When he got to the edge of the lake where it was safe, Spike appeared. The dog had managed to pull himself from the ice and water. Spike was soaking wet, shaking from the cold and licking his master. Peter quickly removed his coat and dried the dog to keep him warm. When he arrived home Peter unloaded all his traps and animals. Spike managed to stay warm and dry.
Language for the Next Seven Generations
“Children are so eager to learn,” Jeanette says. “They have passion and you can see it. In school, it’s like being in a community — it’s a reminder of their home and where they come from … their kokums and moshums right. They value language — connection is so important. When I’m teaching the language we start our day smudging and praying. That’s my routine — starting off everything in a good way.”
Peter said to his wife ‘this dog saved my life today — he kept me from falling through the ice’. After supper he fed Spike leftover rabbit stew and bits of bannock.
After Peter retired from trapping and working after many years, he fed stray dogs that came to the house with leftover food. He said ‘treat the animals with kindness and they will be kind to you as well’.
“Our lives, teachings and stories are a continuous circle,” says Jeanette. “My parents learned from their relatives — now I’m sharing what I learned with others, including my own family and grandchildren. It’s an idea — a state of language — that I hope all our youth have the opportunity to experience as they learn and re-learn our languages. That circle never stops.”
When we Need Language
My brother and I recently started collecting dead media — magnetic tape, CRT TVs, etc. — after finding a box of VHS tapes in our dad’s basement. Unlabeled, the tapes had been a mystery for 35 years — so it was a surprise for both of us when the first one we watched ended up being a home recording of our nôkhom. My brother and I are babies in the film, not much older than 2 or 3 years old. In sepia tones, we’re sitting on the lap of a man I don’t recognize while my nôkhom records.
And I hear her speak. For the first time, I hear her voice. It’s only 30 seconds, but it’s there — a clear, warm, charming aunty laugh. It’s the first time I experience language as a tangible, physical force of identity and life — inseparable from culture, Land and the spaces I occupy. So it is. Language everywhere we need, when we need it most.
