The Persistence of Life in "Prairie Edge"

Monika Dziamka

June 21

If you travel west on Tramway toward I-25 in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where I'm from and where I live now, you may be surprised to find a herd of buffalo grazing on the fenced-in land just on the border of the city. The land is in fact a 107-acre preserve "established by the Pueblo of Sandia to promote the resurgence of the American Bison," according to its website, which adds, "[The buffalo] were all but exterminated during the mass slaughter of the eighteen hundreds."

I have often marveled at how powerful, strong, and indomitable they seem to be, and I'm sure I haven't been the only person who drives past the reserve to wonder what it would be like if they roamed freely again, as they did centuries ago, in vast numbers throughout the country. Perhaps this is why I was so drawn to Prairie Edge by Conor Kerr, a novel in which two Métis cousins abduct bison living in a national park and release them in downtown Edmonton, the capital city of Alberta, Canada. (Buffalo and bison are very similar, by the way, but bison have bigger heads, a thicker coat, and can survive much colder conditions than buffalo.)

Grey Ginther plans it out, at ease with handling animals and using farm vehicles and equipment. With a background in activism and known in the community as an adept public speaker, she has grown increasingly burned out by her work and skeptical of what activism can accomplish. Her bachelor's degree in Native Studies hasn't provided her with much fulfillment or hope, either. "You can get arrested for just existing as a Métis man. You know that better than anyone," she tells Isidore "Ezzy" Desjarlais, who spent time in jail for petty crimes and struggles with alcoholism. "So what difference does it really make in the long run? It's either do something monumental or just fade into an inevitable jail cell." Ezzy, who seems to float through life but finds purpose in his connection to Grey and to his Métis heritage, agrees to help her more out of boredom than anything else.

Kerr, who is Métis-Ukranian, lives in Edmonton, won the 2022 ReLIT Award for his novel Avenue of Champions, and is also the author of two poetry collections. He was inspired by a real event that occurred in Alberta in 2010, near the city of Camrose. Nearly forty bison escaped from a farm after trespassers, according to the farm owner, left a gate open on the property. As in real life, the bison released by Ezzy and Grey at first cause a commotion, but the news dies down and no great cultural shift or other real, significant response happens. In fact, as Kerr explores with wry humor, it's perhaps just another example of an opportunity for exploitation and misguided, if not naive, intention. A pro-bison protest movement grows. Merchandise appears. Grey turns on the radio one day and listens to a news report:

"Local ally Erin Green has made shirts and bumper stickers with the hashtag #bisonstrong. . . . So, Erin, can you tell us a little bit about what you're hoping to accomplish with your shirts and bumper stickers?"

". . . When I first saw the bison, I thought, 'Oh my god, they must belong in the River Valley.' This is, like, their home. And we took it from them. So, like, we should do everything that we can to help them stay here, you know? . . . From every shirt or sticker that's sold, I'll donate ten percent back to the activist group. It's my way of moving forward with reconciliation and letting the bison know that they have a home here."

"Amazing work, Erin. And I'm sure the protestors thank you for your generosity."

Kerr drops in such gems with precision, exploring the complexities of indigenous modern life in this particular part of the world but also in more universal terms. Prairie Edge, at times witty, satirical, and funny, is also tragic, brutal, and intense. The chapters switch from Ezzy's to Grey's perspective, infused in their own way with themes of identity, hope, legacy, healing, and what it means to survive. The prologue expands the book's time range: the opening pages take place in the late 1870s and are told from the point of view of an unnamed young female Métis narrator on a bison hunt. Her tribe follows the bison, but they must stop at the prairie edge, the Medicine Line, the border between modern-day America and Canada. As she watches the bison move beyond reach, the narrator understands that an enormous shift has just occurred for her people and their traditions. Their lives will never be the same again.

And yet, the bison do return, as do the buffalo in New Mexico. Somehow, against great odds, this life persisted and persists still. Prairie Edge is an acknowledgment of this persistence, a study of how life can keep going, and how the story of survival can also be a uniquely personal one.

In a recent CBC interview Kerr says, "If we're waiting for Western institutions to make change for us, [then] we're going to be waiting forever. . . . [Change is] going to come from future generations of youth who know themselves, who know what it means to be Indigenous, to embrace that, and there's so much hope for that future."

A thought-provoking novel filled with complexity and beauty, Prairie Edge is cinematic with many memorable scenes, intriguing characters, and sharp dialogue. Movie industry folks take note: as enjoyable as it was to read this novel, it would be outstanding on the big screen.