In a heart-wrenching revelation that shakes the foundations of history, the recent discovery of over 200 unmarked graves of Native children near a former residential school in Canada has forced us to confront the dark legacy of cultural erasure—yet Julian Brave NoiseCat's latest book, We Survived the Night, offers a beacon of hope and introspection amidst the pain. This powerful work, penned by a talented writer and filmmaker, delves into the themes of life, death, and survival through Indigenous eyes, blending personal memoir with broader narratives of resilience. But here's where it gets controversial: could this book be seen as a radical call to reclaim Indigenous stories in a society that has long marginalized them? Let's explore this gripping tale together, and remember, this is the part most people miss—the subtle ways mythology and modern struggles intertwine to paint a fuller picture of what it means to endure.
To get started, let's rewind to May 2021, when groundbreaking technology revealed more than 200 unmarked graves of Indigenous children at the site of the Kamloops Indian Residential School in British Columbia, Canada. This chilling find wasn't just a historical footnote; it sparked an urgent response from the United States, where Secretary of the Interior Deb Haaland launched the Federal Indian Boarding School Initiative. This initiative aims to thoroughly examine the enduring impacts of Indian boarding schools across America, shedding light on a system that forcibly separated Indigenous children from their families, languages, and traditions. While nations on both sides of the border begin to reckon with this painful past, Indigenous families continue to mourn the irreplaceable losses—the loved ones, cultural practices, and ancestral knowledge stripped away by these institutions.
In We Survived the Night, available at bookshops like Bookshop.org, NoiseCat confronts this legacy head-on, weaving his family's story with explorations of Indigenous communities across North America. Building on his earlier work, including the Oscar-nominated documentary Sugarcane, which investigates abuse at St. Joseph's Mission and the ripple effects of intergenerational trauma, this memoir serves as both a personal journey and a broader commentary. For beginners diving into Indigenous histories, think of it as a bridge: it connects the dots between personal heartache and systemic oppression, making complex ideas more accessible through relatable storytelling.
The book opens with a harrowing tale from NoiseCat's own life—the story of his father, Ed, who was discovered mere hours after birth in the trash incinerator at St. Joseph's Mission, an Indian residential school in British Columbia. Miraculously, he survived what could have been a tragic end. Ed grew up on the Canim Lake Indian Reserve, becoming part of the first generation spared from residential schools. Yet, life on the reserve presented its own challenges, and NoiseCat poignantly describes his father as 'an Indian who barely knows how to live in this world. Just how to survive.' This line captures the raw essence of survival amid cultural dispossession, illustrating how even 'freedom' from institutions didn't guarantee wholeness for Indigenous peoples.
Originally conceived as a means to reconnect with his elusive father—who was often absent from NoiseCat's life—the memoir expands into a rich tapestry that incorporates journalistic reporting on diverse Indigenous communities. Adding layers of depth, NoiseCat integrates mythology and oral histories centered on Coyote, the legendary trickster figure among the Salish people. These ancient Coyote tales, passed down through generations, were nearly extinguished by colonization, but NoiseCat revives them as a tool for understanding contemporary struggles. To clarify for newcomers: Coyote isn't just a mischievous character; he's a symbol of adaptability and cunning, much like how Indigenous peoples have navigated oppression.
In his explorations, NoiseCat highlights overlooked stories from Native communities, showcasing the varied roles Indigenous people play across North America. He journeys to the Tlingit in southeast Alaska, where they grapple with disputes over herring eggs in Sitka Sound—a conflict symbolizing broader fights for environmental and cultural sovereignty. Then, there's the Lumbee tribe in southeastern North Carolina, battling for federal recognition despite resistance from other Native nations, underscoring the complexities of tribal politics. Finally, he visits a Diné medicine man in Arizona who persevered through the COVID-19 pandemic, demonstrating spiritual strength in the face of modern crises. As NoiseCat reflects, 'Looking out at that big, diverse Indian world is one of my ways of looking within—just as looking within is a way for me to look out,' offering a profound example of how personal introspection mirrors global Indigenous experiences.
During our recent conversation, NoiseCat shared that We Survived the Night tackles profound questions of existence, including spiritual dimensions, and that he deepened his community commitments through ceremonies to write it authentically. This interview has been edited for clarity and flow.
When asked what spurred him to write the book, NoiseCat explained his unique background as the son of a renowned Native artist and an Irish Jewish New Yorker. His father departed when he was young, leaving NoiseCat with a distinctly Indigenous name—Julian Brave NoiseCat—and a longing to comprehend his heritage. 'I was always trying to understand him and why he left, and what it was to be Native, and even more specifically, what it was to be a Native man—a Secwépemc man, a St’at’imc man,' he said. Reading and writing became his lifeline, drawing inspiration from authors like Sherman Alexie, Leslie Marmon Silko, N. Scott Momaday, and Louise Erdrich.
One standout aspect of the book is NoiseCat's compassionate approach to the people in his life—he extends grace without vilifying them, even when it might be warranted. He acknowledges the hurt from his father's absence and his grandfather's actions, yet sees the beauty in their roles as survivors. 'Some of the same reasons my dad didn’t know how to be a dad and wasn’t present were the same reasons that he’s a survivor and he’s still here,' NoiseCat notes, highlighting how self-preservation can complicate relationships. This nuanced view invites debate: is forgiveness always the right path in stories of trauma, or does it sometimes dilute accountability? And this is the part most people miss—the idea that love and pain can coexist without judgment.
Delving deeper, NoiseCat addresses the pervasive feeling among Indigenous people that they must 'earn' their indigeneity. He explains that many Natives feel 'not Native enough,' yearning for fluency in their languages, deeper community ties, or even physical traits like darker skin. This stems from colonization's immense losses—two continents taken, languages imposed, cultures eroded. For beginners, imagine indigeneity as a puzzle with missing pieces; reclamation is an ongoing act. Through writing We Survived the Night and working on Sugarcane, NoiseCat actively revived Coyote stories, seeing parallels in today's world shaped by 'tricksters and their tricks.' Here, a controversial hook emerges: in an era of global deception, do these tales imply that colonization itself was a grand trick, and if so, how should we respond to that?
NoiseCat also discussed integrating Coyote as a narrative guide, inspired by living with his father while crafting the book. After decades apart, they shared evenings filled with stories, laughter, weed, and games, sparking creativity. Coyote's antics mirrored the real-world reporting, leading NoiseCat to treat these myths as 'nonfiction.' To honor his Salish heritage, he likened the book's structure to weaving, the highest art form among his people—passed down through female ancestors like his great-grandmothers. This adds a layer of cultural reverence, expanding on how storytelling is not just art but a form of ancestral connection.
As for what he hopes readers glean, NoiseCat emphasizes entertainment and emotion alongside deeper truths. He urges reflection on universal themes like parent-child bonds, tradition, spirituality, and endurance. Critically, he critiques a society that remains ignorant of Indigenous histories, labeling the boarding school system as authoritarian—a timely parallel to current debates on power and control. 'By understanding us and our stories, you can actually understand this place and this society and this world and what it is to be human, in deeper ways,' he asserts. But here's where it gets controversial: is it fair to claim Indigenous peoples are 'core' to North America's story, potentially sidelining other narratives? And this is the part most people miss—the call for empathy as a pathway to true societal change.
What do you think? Do you agree that stories like Coyote's can illuminate modern struggles, or is there a risk of romanticizing loss? Should forgiveness in memoirs overshadow justice? Share your thoughts in the comments—let's spark a conversation on reclaiming Indigenous voices in our shared history!
