Using Unicode characters in modern programming environments is possible if the computing system supports the desired character sets. The Unified Canadian Aboriginal Syllabics block of the Unicode Standard occupies 640 code positions from 1400hex to 167Fhex. It includes orthographic glyphs for Blackfoot, Carrier, Cree, Dene, Inuktitut, Ojibwe, and other Canadian Athabascan languages. Unfortunately, the coding environment is often the main obstacle in using Unicode characters, especially as variable names and, more problematically, as keywords or reserved words. Typically, this lack of support is simply because the environment often uses a pre-installed font that does not contain glyph(s) in the desired code points of the font file. By default, the coding environments I am familiar with, such as Visual Studio and Processing, use a fixed-width font/typeface such as Consolas, Courier, or Monospace. These fonts are common to Windows OS systems but do not have the Canadian Aboriginal Syllabics block of glyphs. Until recently, changing this font was not easy. Although, as of the writing of this article, the settings or preferences support in some IDEs is open to changing the default font, some still limit the fonts that can be used. There also are limited fonts suitable for programming using the Unicode Canadian Aboriginal Syllabics, and I argue there are currently no suitable fonts. Though it is theoretically possible to use syllabics as variable names in those IDEs, reliance on English programmatic tokens remains. The question then becomes, which font(s) can or should be used for programming with acahkasinahikana?

Though this may sound like a trivial topic from a western perspective, as it truly has little to do with actual coding and more to do with aesthetic preference, my critical reflection on coding practice makes this a necessary point of discussion. Remember that Nehiyaw acahkasinahikana are visual representations and extensions of being. They are called spirit markers for a reason. So, their representation in the computer must be treated with equal consideration.

Most programmers would agree that fixed-width or monospaced typefaces are ubiquitous in coding because they align very well in rows and columns and generally provide a greater distinction between similarly shaped characters like “0, o, O,” narrow characters like “I, l, i,” as well as providing more space for syntactical and operational characters “(, {, [,!” [Ardley 2014]. Combining this respect for the visual aspects of language with the need for a monospaced coding font reveals two challenges. The first challenge is that, to my knowledge, only one monospaced font purposefully includes the Canadian Aboriginal Syllabics blocks, Everson Mono.[4] The second challenge is that the physical structure of syllabics makes using non-fixed-width fonts challenging to navigate as code. The visual structure of the major glyphs (i.e., the glyphs representing a consonant and vowel pair) consists of reflected orientations of a single shape (ex. ᒥ ᒣ ᒪ ᒧ). The resulting printed text is fairly consistently sized but is visually similar to coding in all English caps. This is not necessarily a negative, as my original programs written in BASIC were done in all caps. But a more significant point of consideration is how a culture perceives the visual design of its language. For example, in developing typefaces for Canadian syllabics, Canadian typography designer Kevin King worked directly with Indigenous communities to ensure their languages were written in the respective community’s preferred style. He notes that “to ignore this would result in a text that was neither culturally appropriate for local readers nor able to convey adequately the meaning and atmosphere of the text for that readership” [King 2022]. Adding to these, the limited number of monospaced fonts that support Canadian syllabic glyphs encouraged me to develop a new code-friendly font to address these obstacles. This font (Figure 1), I tentatively named “AC Mono,” was constructed using my wholistic design framework, and my choices in the font design process are consciously aware of Indigenous visual aesthetics. I want to note here that my design of this font was considered from a more pan-Indigenous perspective and not specific to Nehiyaw culture. This is because the Unified Canadian Aboriginal Syllabics is not Nehiyaw specific – it represents glyphs from various North American Indigenous languages. For example, as seen in the syllabic T-series glyphs like “tâ” (ᑖ) and “te” (ᑌ), I used thicker lines, an emphasis on fluidity in the curves, and rounded features on the start and end points of the strokes. These organic geometries and gestures are found in numerous Indigenous art traditions in North America, including the ovoid traditions of Coast-Salish artforms, Inuit bone and stone carving, and Métis beadwork.

In the construction of AC Mono, I used the typefaces of Everson Mono and Consolas only as sizing templates, building my resulting font with the stroke weight of Consolas and the mildly rounded stroke end of Everson Mono. Of particular note, syllabics have no differing case structures. Therefore, no glyphs need to accommodate space for descenders that extend below the baseline. The removal of the descender area results in a noticeably reduced distance between the glyph baseline and the edge of the glyph-space in the AC Mono font compared to ASCII/English fonts (Figure 2), allowing for a more consistent line height, providing better options for vertical spacing between rows when coding.

The history of print cultures has led to privileging western “stories, voices, and values” [Risam 2018, p. 89], and modern coding cultures and computer language development have naturally adopted. Though Nehiyawewin can be typed on “standard” keyboard layouts using a Romanized orthography, this seemingly innocuous accommodation is probably the number one contributor to the continued erosion of Indigenous culture and language in the digital age.

Initially designed for English typewriters in the mid-to-late 19th century, the International Standards Organization officially adopted the QWERTY keyboard layout in 1971, becoming “the de facto Standard layout for Communications and computer interface keyboards” in 1972 [Noyes 1983]. Over the last 50 years, the ISO Standard has evolved as our communication technologies have, and ISO 9995-9:2016 now includes definitions for multilingual and multiscript keyboard layouts [International Standards Organization 2016]. However, these standards still assume that most languages can be represented with a Latin alphabet. The ISO Standard clearly states that it “is intended to address all characters needed to write all contemporary languages using the Latin script, together with standardized Latin transliterations of some major languages using other scripts” [International Standards Organization 2016]. This assumption that “all contemporary languages” can be written using a Latin character set is the type of colonial coercion that continues to institute western ideologies as dominant.

Regarding computing, our experiences are configured and guided by technology design philosophies that do not always include a combined understanding of “people, technology, society, and business” [Norman and Tognazzini 2015]. By working with members of my community, my Ancestral Code project has allowed me to explore keyboard designs that can better represent Nehiyawewin and Nehiyaw culture when entering syllabics into the computer. I aimed my design objectives at challenging assumed western standards by investigating the role of the keyboard as an input device, and how such devices can support Nehiyaw cultural pedagogy and improve the relationships between the user, their language (i.e., Nehiyawewin), and the computer. Though Nehiyaw syllabics are taught in several ways, one popular method is the arrangement of the Nehiyawewin syllabary into a star design, often referred to as a Cree syllabic star chart (Figure 3). This design is used often in teaching syllabics and contains several culturally specific teachings. For example, as a student at University nuhelot’ine thaiyots’i nistameyimâkanak Blue Quills, my favourite syllabic “origin-stories” were about the “ᒐ” syllabic, described as being symbolic of the pipe used in Nehiyaw ceremony, “ᐱ” is a medicine lodge (i.e., tipi), and “ᑕ” can be interpreted as the toe of a moccasin. Whether or not these story sources are the true inspirations for the initial syllabic creations, I recognize the importance the visual imagery of syllabics holds and how they are intricately tied to cultural representations and understandings. Furthermore, due to the reflected and rotational arrangement and orientation of Nehiyaw syllabics, these teachings cannot be represented using the modern four-row keyboards used for typing in western computing.

I feel that a keyboard or input device that uses this Nehiyaw star layout is culturally significant, meaningful to a Nehiyaw user, and therefore appropriate for capturing Nehiyawewin. Through my iterative design process for the Nehiyawewin keyboard, I critically evaluated everything from the keycaps to the printed circuit boards (“PCB”). During this process, I created five distinct designs to retain cultural associations, allow efficient syllabic entry, and have practical usability for typing everyday documents. I found the star design keyboard was best suited as the primary interface for coding with Nehiyawewin in the Ancestral Code programming environment (Figure 4). Similarly, testing these designs with Nehiyawewin language-learners, users found typing syllabics with a “star” keyboard easier than QWERTY layouts because of the grouping of syllabic sounds in each of the four quadrants establishes a mental-map making locating syllabics by sound easier. For example, all the “i” syllabics are located in the keyboard's top left and top vertical. This relationship between spoken language, computer language, and teachings of the syllabic orthography is meaningful and is one that I feel is better supported by a device derived from Nehiyawewin pedagogy.

What is a computer? I asked the most knowledgeable person in my Nehiyaw class, the Elder. That conversation went something like this:

I note that this was not an isolated occurrence. “Well, that depends. There really is no word for [insert word],” was a very common response to almost anything “western” in my classes and applied to most modern technologies like radios, televisions, and cell phones. Depending on whom you asked, there are as many ways to describe these modern contraptions as there are dialects of Nehiyawewin. However, I accept and now use mâmitoneyihcikanihkân [6], suggested by Wayne Jackson, an esteemed Nehiyaw language expert and Nehiyawewin professor at University Blue Quills. As explained to me, this word is understood to mean “artificial thought/brain.” I choose this definition over masinatakan cikastepayicikanis because I feel it better conveys the essence of what a computer is. I find that masinatakan cikastepayicikanis [7] is more about describing the computer as a physical, non-animate object of utility than the more conceptual or abstract and humanized idea of what a computer is. After all, we as a species have a considerably long history of relating technologies to aspects of being human [Travers 1996, p. 57], and mâmitoneyihcikanihkân suits this tradition.

Finding suitable replacements for some of the more programming-specific lingo such as integer, float, string, array, variable, subroutine/function, do/while, for/next, and if/then proved to be highly problematic. These concepts either do not translate easily, can only be translated in a general sense, and/or require a broader context. And, in most cases, they cannot be translated without simplifying their meaning. Additionally, these concepts can only be translated by conversation and engagement with community members, fluent speakers, and Elders with the required experience and knowledge.

My solution to this particular challenge was one of metaphoric application rather than translation. I credit Hawai’ian game developer and computer programmer Kari Noe for introducing me to this philosophical change. Noe was a member of a Ōlelo Hawai’ian programming team engaged with translating C# into Hawai’ian [Muzyka 2018]. She described the “if/then/else” statement as an example where the “if/then/else” statement does not make sense when translated from English to Hawai’ian. The programming team consulted with native Hawai’ian speakers and community members to find meaningful terms that could be both culturally appropriate and programmatically practical. The result for “if/then/else” becomes muliwai, the Hawai’ian word for “river”. The idea of rivers being able to branch from the main waterway and eventually rejoin the main river later provided a better conceptualization of a Hawai’ian context than the English “if/then/else” statement. This culturally-aware solution in their language was not only inspirational but fundamentally altered how I was approaching the relationships between computing concepts and cultural relevance. Though I recognize that Hawai’ian peoples’ relationship with water is considerably different from those of the Indigenous peoples of the Americas, water is no less important. In Nehiyaw culture, water is a medicine, a provider of life, and is sacred. Therefore, I have come to use “river” as a conditional branch command. In Nehiyawewin river is sîpiy, and with this root I can then branch an “if” into sîpîsis, a “small river” or “creek” in English. Therefore, a code example might look like the following examples:

In this example, the first “creek” ends with mînisiwat᙮[8] where “᙮” terminates and subsequently ends the “river-if” statement. The second “creek” ends with âniskôsîpiy[9] or “rejoin the river,” and in this case, it would continue to the following statement in the “if” code block. In this way, the “if” statement is fluid. It can branch, terminate, or rejoin the original, reflecting a natural flow or progression.

Understanding computer functions in these cultural terms provides a more Indigenous method of relating to the machine. In addition, defining programmatic operations using culturally meaningful metaphoric terminology changes the process of keyword translation to a process of knowledge adaptation, ensuring that a Nehiyaw programmer does not need to language-switch between Nehiyawewin and English to have the computer perform its tasks. Looking at a computer’s code from this metaphoric perspective can also be extended to the binary level of the machine, where a Nehiyaw worldview can reframe the binary understanding of 1 and 0 as animate and inanimate.

I felt that morphemes and free word order were characteristics of Nehiyawewin that offered strong potential for programmatic versatility though they did offer some unique challenges.

One of the most common and essential cultural practices in Nehiyaw culture is the smudge. A smudge is a small, personal ceremonial practice where the burning of an Indigenous medicinal herb such as sweetgrass or sage is used to “cleanse” and “purify” the individual. When smudging, people pass their hands or objects to be “blessed” through the rising smoke trails. In a normal smudge, you use your hands to draw the smoke towards you – blessing your head, ears, eyes, mouth, heart, and body with the smoke. And then, you “bless” anything else you wish to be cleared of negative energies, such as food, tobacco, eyeglasses, or even your laptop. Essentially, smudging is responsible for blessing anything that can affect any of your four spirits. I have even heard stories from several Nehiyaw and Métis Elders that have physically smudged their laptop to purify it before “Googling.” In the context of ceremony, this idea of “cleansing” is something that computers do regularly. Whether it is emptying the trash bin, clearing memory, resetting the graphics display, or deleting a browser’s cache, the intent of all these activities is to remove items that can negatively affect the system’s operation. Therefore, the first command in an Ancestral Code program is miyâhkasike which is “to smudge with sage/sweetgrass,” or tisamân[18], which is “to smudge (in general),” both serve the same purpose of preparing the system. The choice of which smudge command to use is up to the programmer. However, I personally feel that a program that relates a sacred story or contains culturally specific or significant knowledge in the code would start with miyâhkasike, being more purposeful than the more generic tisamân. These “smudging” operations include, but are not limited to, clearing any current output on the screen, clearing and readying the program’s libraries and variables, and clearing any cache from a previous execution.

Miyâhkasike is an essential piece of code because not only does it have a very real programmatic purpose, but to have the system digitally mirror a user’s physical ceremonial practice transcends the system. It also symbolically provides the computer a “spirit” that the user can relate to as more of a living being instead of seeing the computer as a subordinate spiritless instrument. From an Indigenous perspective, this kind of human-machine connection is one of collaboration and kinship, and has been explored by several Indigenous scholars and artists [Noori 2011] [L’Hirondelle 2014] [Lewis et al 2018].

Pipon literally means “winter.” It, and its plural form pipona, along with the lexically related words pipohki (next winter), awasipipon (last winter), and mesakwanipipon (every winter)[19] are used in Ancestral Code as “for loops.” Pipon describes the single execution of a group of lines, and pipohki, awasipipon, and mesakwanipipon are sub-functions that can only occur inside a repeating pipona loop.

You may ask why use pipon as a metaphor for the programmatic “loop?” Could you not use nîpin (summer) since it also occurs annually? What makes pipon important is its significance to aging and identity in Nehiyaw culture. For example, in Nehiyawewin, I say, “I am currently 49 winters old.” As heard from respected Nehiyaw culture and language instructor Reuben Quinn, we use “winter” and not another season because back in the days before “comfortable housing” in the northern climes of what is now Canada, surviving winter signified your resilience and survival of the most extreme elements of Earth Mother [Quinn 2021]. Surviving winter is a valued and personal accomplishment. The symbolism in “winter” as a programming keyword lies in its representation as a repeatable cycle and in its relationships to aging and resilience that naturally imply increased experience and knowledge. So, similar to when a western-formatted computer program loops through a series of instructions, it often builds upon previously executed statements — the loop “ages” as it progresses and continues until the loop conditions are met or terminate.

Waniyaw is a word that can be used for meaning “at random.” In Ancestral Code, it is a way to simulate the dynamic and unpredictable forces of the natural world. Randomization is fundamental to Ancestral Code because of the generative nature of the outputs it creates. From a cultural perspective, I want the visual outputs to have aspects that are arbitrary and not controllable by the programmer. This environment of chance reflects the aspects of nature we cannot control. Therefore, giving the system some autonomy and decision-making is one way to prevent the programmer from always having complete control. In Nehiyaw culture, it is necessary to allow nature to run its course or recognize that there are elements in our world beyond the individual’s control.

In addition to the reserved keyword waniyaw, the words pipon, mihcecis, mihcet, mihcetinwa[20], and the bound morpheme misi- incorporate randomization events in one form or another.

So, for example, if the programmer wants a statement or series of statements to execute randomly, they would write it like this:

waniyaw Wisakecahk pimohtew

Ancestral Code interprets this instruction as “have Wîsahkecâhk walk at a random interval.” If this instruction is in the main body of the code, it will execute for random intervals from that point forward. If this instruction is inside a pipona block, it executes randomly only for as long as that loop is active and ends when the loop ends. In this use, the computer takes on the responsibility of “nature,” and each time the program is executed, the randomness introduced with waniyaw in the code guarantees the output will always be unique. This uniqueness is similar to how a story is never quite the same when repeated, even by the same storyteller.