Malice The Writer

Something I think about often, as an Indigenous person, is the contrast between how people online, especially settlers, or folks with distant Indigenous ancestry but no real connection to their nation, talk about things like the Wendigo, versus how our actual cultures relate to sacred stories, taboos, and the act of carrying those teachings forward.

There’s a modern trend where people treat words like “Wendigo” as inherently cursed or dangerous, almost in a superstitious, horror movie way. You’ll see posts that say “don’t say the word,” “don’t include it in media,” “white people shouldn’t touch this,” "Make sure you censor it," and so on. And while I get that it’s often coming from a place of wanting to protect something, it’s also deeply disconnected from any living cultural framework.

It becomes performance. The loudest voices are usually not people grounded in community teachings, but people trying to wield indigenous people as a kind of online moral weapon.

In many Indigenous cultures, there are story taboos. There are stories that are only told in winter, or only told to certain people, or in certain contexts.

There are stories that are sacred, and not meant for entertainment or casual consumption.

But those taboos are not about silence for silence’s sake, they’re about context, relationship, reciprocity, and responsibility. And crucially: they are ours. They are not content warnings for the internet to enforce. They are part of a living culture that knows when and how to speak its truths.

One example I always return to is the historical taboo against painting sacred stories and beings, a taboo that was challenged by Norval Morrisseau (Copper Thunderbird), an Indigenous artist whose work was, at least to me, absolutely revolutionary. He painted sacred forms to reclaim story and identity for people who had been cut off by colonialism, residential schools, and systemic erasure.

His work wasn’t sacrilege. It was art. And he was criticized, extremely so, by the Elders, but in the end he changed the way we hold those taboos. He made it possible to talk again, to see again. He is one of my heroes.

So when I see people online say things like “don’t even say Wendigo,” it doesn’t feel like protection, it feels like fear. Not fear rooted in spiritual protocol, but fear rooted in settler guilt and internet moralism.

If you're not part of a nation, or you’re not grounded in those teachings, it's not your job to police sacred boundaries based on someone else’s cosmology. Your job is to listen. To understand why a taboo exists, who it protects, and how it lives. Because not everything sacred is forbidden, and not everything forbidden is yours to defend, and not everything you think is forbidden is actually forbidden, and not everything actually forbidden should stay forbidden.

We preserve culture by carrying it, not by locking it away, not by mimicking silence, but by understanding the weight of what we choose to speak.

And part of why this matters so deeply to me, why I feel so strongly about the difference between performance and lived tradition, is because art is not just a hobby or a pastime for me. It is sacred. It is divine.

Art is not just what I do; it is who I am. It is how I connect with the world, with spirit, with others, with grief and joy alike. I create because it is a form of prayer. Because it is a way to breathe. Because when I write, draw, create, speak, I am reaching through time, not just as myself, but as part of something old, wounded, and despite that, still alive.

I believe deeply in artistic freedom, not just in principle, but in practice. I do not believe art should be censored to appease the comfort of those who do not share in its context. I believe in the right to speak, even when the subject is painful. Especially when the subject is painful. Because if we cannot speak pain, we cannot heal it.

And that’s why, when it comes to the Wendigo, I will not take part in the moral panic around its name or its depiction.

I carry the teachings and fears of my people in my body. I know the stories, not because I read them in a horror anthology or watched them on TV, but because they are part of the world I come from.

And I carry that weight into the choices I make as an artist.

I do not treat it as a cursed word that must never be uttered, never depicted, never grappled with. I treat it as a truth, ugly, dangerous, hungry, starving even, that deserves to be met with eyes open.

The art taboos of my ancestors were real. There was a time when sacred stories were not to be painted, not to be shared in certain ways. And yet that taboo was not the end of the story.

I believe I and others too, have that right, just as Copper Thunderbird did.

Yes, some people, many of them strangers to the culture they claim to protect, may find my stance uncomfortable. But I can live with that. I have to. Because I live with far worse. I live with the ghosts and absences colonialism has left behind. And frankly, the living memory of that spirit what it means, and what it consumes is far more real to me than online discourse.

I am more concerned with preserving the power of art than I am with preserving a silence that was already fraying under the weight of history. I honor my elders, and I honor the stories. But I do not mistake the past for a cage. I will carry what I have inherited into the future, with care, but not with absolutist reverence.

Let me create. Let me speak. Let me offer the truth of what lives in me, even if it is hard to look at. Especially then.

That is what I believe art is for.

And as long as I'm being honest;

I’m not particularly concerned with whether white people use the Wendigo in horror movies.

I understand why some folks feel protective, especially in diaspora or reconnecting contexts, when so much has been taken, the scraps feel like they matter. But I don't think this is the battleground we should die on. The Wendigo is not some uniquely special, sacred figure immune to horror depiction. It’s not a god, not a story reserved only for ceremony. It’s a warning. A lesson. A spirit of consumption and decay and hunger and greed and myriad other things, and those are things everyone relates to I'm sure, so I can see why it happened, also they're fucking scary so yeah no shit it happened.

I’m not saying “anyone SHOULD do anything they want forever.” I think Native people should be involved in these stories. Should be paid, should be credited, should be listened to. I think if you want to write a Wendigo story, you should at the very least try to understand what it meant to the people who believed in it first. Because that's just respect.

But I’m also saying that I have watched my people die from real hunger. From real poverty, overdose, housing loss, despair. I have seen firsthand, just what it means to be devoured by something much larger than yourself.

And that, not some dumb horror movie monster is where my fear and my grief lies.

If a white person misuses a story, I might sigh, I might roll my eyes. But if someone uses a story well, if someone takes the myth and reshapes it with care, with horror, with beauty, and with craft, I’m not going to chase them down screaming about "misuse." Because frankly, we have bigger problems.

And we have bigger, scarier monsters.

I don’t want “representation” that amounts to gatekeeping scraps.

I want sovereignty.

I want land back.

I want our languages and waters and children safe.

I want Native artists to be funded, housed, heard.

We are not fragile. Our stories are not fragile.

Let them be shared.

I’m sure there are fellow Native people, from my nation and from adjacent ones, who disagree with me on all this. That’s okay. We are not a monolith. We were never meant to be. Our cultures are living, breathing, and full of contradictions, just like any other people.

But I also know that my opinion is not unique, and it is certainly not unpopular within our circles. I support my fellow Indigenous people, always. I want safety and sovereignty and self-expression for us all. But on this? On this one? We’ll just have to disagree.

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