Kentucky Fried to Stay. (Poetry).

KENTUCKY FRIED TO STAY

Michelle la Flamme

(On visiting Yellowknife in the N.W.T. in December of
1997 and being observant)

They say Colonel Saunders killed a man. I witnessed him
swallow a village in an afternoon!

Cold, crisp air-it's thirty-seven below. Everyone is
scrambling around from indoors to their cars, keeps running
not to contend with cold metal.

Fur-lined parkas,
fresh red cheeks,
quick rushes of food,
people of colour packed into the small, salty-aired room,
bright plastic seats,
and red and white-striped cardboard.

They spill salt as their cramped fingers attempt to express
dexterity, warmed by the greasy heat of the boxedlunches -
dinner packs replacing wild meat.

They huddle in bunches,
speaking Dene,
their meal sits,
defiance...

They have heard the number but waited for the caller to
give a Dene sound they will recognize. Filipino servers
receive the food and meekly call the numbers. The head
'chef'-a Black woman-and her son quickly fix the food -
the Kentucky recipe: "eleven herbs and spices"-their faces
shining with the grime and grease of the hot flyers. I see
something old and forgotten, repressed and historical.

I step through the steaming tables of people and food into
the back of the room. I see a door, its message a stark
reminder that the warmth is manufactured and alien. The
door taunts me, its message staring boldly back at me
through the hazy steam. Its prominence indicated by the
size of letters on the door, bold and emblazoned. They
scream out the irony of their own existence. They ring and
reverberated as I breathe in the deep significance of their
strength: "COLONIAL FOOD SYSTEMS."

Here in the North as people sit wolfing down the gravy,
fries and "secret recipe" chicken, in the spicy air, I ruminate
on the significance of its all. The last episode of North of
Sixty passes through my mind. "Closed for the
season," they said. The granny warning, "we belong where
we have been." Something is not matching, it all swirls
together in an instance as I free fall and associate.

The diamond mines here in the North,
the chief's children speaking about their future in the land,
a modern motion picture.
Black woman fights Stephen Spielberg for the rights to a
movie.
Whose story is it?
The slave trying to free himself and others from bondage
aboard a
ship bound for the America,
the land claims,
the genocide,
my survival and theirs, ours...
The pain and the idealism,
cooking for the Masta,
a distinct colour in mind.

The "COLONIAL FOOD SYSTEMS" painted on the
Kentucky fried chicken door registers in a very deep place
with flashes and images. Colonial food systems rattles like
tin, aluminum, cheap & lethal, gilded nonsensical double-
speak and the happy gobblers unaware of all of what they
are consuming, accepting, polluting themselves, almost
eagerly, undisturbed by alcohol or drugs.

An old couple sit serenely and blankly begins their prayer
of thanks for the meal they are about to receive. Granny's
glasses clouded by the steam and grease of the "snack
pack" that sits between her primly folded girls" school
hands. She's tired and thanks the creator whom she feels
has worked through the colonial food systems to make it
this easy for her to whet her appetite. The multi-coloured,
kerchiefed-heads within hearing distance nod in
gratitude...colonial food system-the illusion of feeling
"full" while "empty." I too, am an accomplice.

I shake my head, breathe in the secret recipe, steam and
slap myself with the coldness of the air outside. I'm
walking across the street, swallowing deeply and feeling
the burn of the wind pull the tears from my eyes. I want to
wish it away, and not see Kentucky fried here to stay.

They say the Colonel killed a man. I witnessed the
Kentucky fried food system swallow a village in an
afternoon and I too was an accomplice.

Michelle La Flamme is of Metis and African Canadian descent. She holds an M.A. in English Literature and has taught at colleges and universities in Canada and Europe. She has published in Kinesis, West Coast Line and in an anthology, Miscenegation Blues, published by Sister Visions Press.