Being called a 'sq--w' is an attack on what it means to be Indigenous and female
Growing up as an Indigenous woman on the Prairies, getting called a sq--w was a reality I became accustomed to
This first-person piece is by Ntawnis Piapot, a Nehiyaw Iskwew from Piapot Cree Nation and CBC Saskatchewan reporter. It accompanies a feature she wrote based on interviews with Indigenous women on the same subject.
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WARNING: This essay contains a derogatory term for Indigenous women, as well stories about its impact, that some readers might find offensive or disturbing. The word has been censored for that reason.
Being called a sq--w is more than a slur you hear yelled or whispered in your presence, it is an attack on what it means to be Indigenous and female on the Prairies.
A year ago, a reader emailed me, admonishing "another story by this leftist sq--w." I then heard stories from fellow female Indigenous CBC employees being called sq--ws. So, I started asking friends and family about the last time they got called the word. I got so many answers of "last year," "last month," "two weeks ago" that I knew this topic had to be explored.
I interviewed more than a dozen Indigenous women from the Prairies about their experiences being called this word. They called it dehumanizing and said it can have serious repercussions on how Indigenous women view themselves. They also said it is an illustration of the continuing impacts of colonization, and the concerning way in which many in society view and treat Indigenous women today.
The first time I was called a sq--w I was seven years old. I was playing on and off the sidewalk as it dipped into a driveway, waiting for a city bus. Winter had just ended and there was slush on the ground.
Weekends spent at my mother's place in Regina meant taking the bus all over the city. I was travelling alone with my older cousin that day. She was 14, and I was a nuisance to her at times, always chasing her and wanting to be part of her teenage life. I don't remember where we were headed that particular morning, but we were together and that meant we were safe.
As I splashed in a puddle, I saw the bus turn the corner. As a child, I looked forward to walking up those three steps on the bus, putting my change in "like a big girl," and rushing to get a seat by the window so I could watch the different neighbourhoods and houses pass by.
That is not what happened this time.
When trauma happens, time slows down. Seconds turn into minutes, minutes seem to last an hour, and an hour is like an eternity. As a child having experienced trauma worse than this, I know you can turn your head and zero in on a light shining underneath a door so you can try to remember just that light and not have to focus on what is really happening to you.
No one ever explained to me what a sq--w was; I just came to understand what it meant.- Ntawnis Piapot
I remember the bus slowing down. I remember smiling and getting on the sidewalk with my cousin's change in my hand, bracing myself to climb those three steps. Happy.
Then I remember the bus driver opening the front door, driving by and yelling, "Get off the road, you f--king sq--ws!" His face was completely red, eyes furrowed, full of hate. I will never forget that face.
The bus did not stop for us that day. The driver slammed the door shut as he sped off.
My cousin put her arm in front of me, as if to shield me not only from the slush that came from underneath the bus as he accelerated, but from the man himself.
Suddenly, my cousin was in the street. She swore back at him and gave him the middle finger. I was frozen, not comprehending what had just happened. She grabbed my hand and we rushed back home, my head bowed low. Humiliated.
It was the first time I had felt shame and I did not know the reason why.
Own your space, own your story, and have pride in knowing how far you have come in this world. - Ntawnis Piapot
When we got back to the house, there was lots of chatter. I felt lost. What was a "f--king sq--w"? Was I one? (I knew I must be one, but why was the driver so mad?) My seven-year-old reasoning told me that had I not been a sq--w, I would be riding the bus right then.
I became scared of bus drivers and many people in positions of authority I had once trusted.
No one ever explained to me what a sq--w was; I just came to understand what it meant.
As I grew up as an Indigenous woman living on the Prairies, getting called a sq--w was a reality I became accustomed to. I would often get called a sq--w or a "dirty Indian" at restaurants. Our family would not get served at nice establishments. We would overhear, "It must be Family Allowance Day. Look, the Indians are here." Later, I would be the sober one getting asked to leave.
I'd be the only one to get asked for ID when my university friends and I would go out. I would get told a place wasn't in fact hiring when I would answer help-wanted ads or that an apartment listed for rent was already taken.
Now that I am an adult, I know what white men and women mean when they call me a sq--w — the insinuation that Indigenous women, iskwewak, are disposable, low value, unworthy of respect, and only used for sex; that you should know your place and stay there.
WATCH | My first time being called the S-word — Indigenous women share their stories:
I thank the many Indigenous women and others who spoke with me for my feature story. This project is not just a testament to their lived experiences, sacrifices and trauma, it is an ode to the courage they had to manifest in order to overcome every one of those obstacles, including being called the 'S-word' simply because they are Indigenous women.
This piece is also a testament to being an Indigenous woman — fully, whole-heartedly and truthfully. We are more than the beautiful beaded earrings you consume, the high cheekbones you admire, and the ribbon skirts we wear that are the colour of sunsets.
I am not a sq--w. I am a proud Nehiyaw Iskwew, a relative, and a descendant of Treaty 4 signatory Chief Payepot. I am a storyteller, with inherent abilities passed down from my ancestors. These stories are medicine for and from the people that call this land home.
Knowing who you are and knowing where you come from is an honour that I was gifted with. As a fellow iskwewak, I say: Own your space, own your story, and have pride in knowing how far you have come in this world.
Ekosi.
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