Potlatch to Feasts


Echoes of Gitxsan Spirit


When I was just a little one, between the ages of three and six, I would hear the sweet sounds of the Gitxsan language drifting through the air in the Hall at Gitwangak. But strangely, it always fell silent when the Indian Agent came around. Those moments felt heavy, as if the very walls held our stories, yet we had to hide them like precious treasures.


Even after the laws changed, life carried on the same for the Indian Agents. It reminds me of how things are today, when the RCMP still come to charge our people for practicing our traditions and honoring our culture on our unceded lands.


During the Christian celebrations, our gatherings would transform into secret Potlatches—what we called Bit’latzch—though outsiders would refer to them as “feasts,” a term more palatable to their ears. I remember winter nights filled with warmth and laughter, where one tribe would serve soup, and a Santa would visit, though gifts were scarce and only given to some. My cousins taught me the ways of our Potlatch system, explaining why only those seated in honor received blankets and payments.


But when the Indian Agent left, oh, how the Hall would come alive again! The Gitxsan language would fill the air like the songs of our ancestors. Our brave men would weave lighthearted conversations to distract the Agent, while the chief stood watch at the entrance, ready to engage if needed.


Then came the day when I found myself in Indian Day School and Public School, and the Gitxsan language began to fade from my heart. The words I once knew were beaten out of me like a drum silenced in the night. Now, I yearn to relearn my language, to reclaim those lost connections if the opportunity arises.


Afterward, my mom and I moved to Vancouver when I was ten. In our family, we often used the word 'TRIBES' when speaking of our people, but it felt confusing. Each time I returned home, the English words would shift, and even the Gitxsan language would morph and twist, with slang shorting our sentences. While everyone understood the Gitxsan, not everyone grasped the meanings behind our English.


At my last community gathering, someone pointed out that 'TRIBES' sounded more like a term from the USA than our own. Thankfully, it turned into a moment of laughter and encouragement, a reminder of our shared spirit.


"Don't let anyone push you aside," Chief Woo'sim'laxh'ha (Uncle Victor) told me, his words echoing in my heart.


In a sense, I can say Jesus helped save our Potlatches from the darkness that tried to snuff them out. Our traditions are resilient, like the river that flows through the land, strong and unyielding.


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