Gatherings Volume 13 The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples Reconciliation Elders as Knowledge Keepers Fall 2002 Editors: Leanne Flett Kruger and Bemelda Wheeler With special guest foreword by Leonard Peltier Theytus Books Ltd. Penticton, BC Gatherings The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples Volume 13 2002 Copyright © for the authors National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data r I I I Main entry under title: Gatherings Volume 13 Gatherings Reconciliation Elders as Knowledge Keepers Annual. ISSN 1180-0666 ISBN 1-894778-06-5 (v. 13) 1. Canadian literature (English)--Indian authors--Periodicals.* 2. Canadian literature (English)--Periodicals.* 3. American literature--Indian authors-- Periodicals. 4. American literature--Periodicals. I. En' owkin International School of Writing. II. En' owkin Centre. PS8235.16G35 C810.8'0897 CS91-031483-7 PR9194.5.15G35 Editorial Committee: Leanne Flett Kruger and Bernelda Wheeler Cover Painting: Julie Flett Layout and Design: Leanne Flett Kruger Proofing: Chick Gabriel, Audrey Huntley and Greg Young-Ing Please send submissions and letters to Gatherings, En' owkin Centre, R.R.#2, Site 50, Comp. 8, V2A 6J7, Canada. Previously published works are not considered. The publisher acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Department of Canadian Heritage and the British Columbia Arts Council in publication of this book. BRITISH • COLUMBIA ARTS COUNCIL Canada I 1 Table of Contents Table of Contents First Words from Leonard Peltier Section 4 - Honouring A Message to Our Young People / 7 Richard O' Halloran Yvonne Beaver Darliea Dorey Janet Marie Rogers Dawna Elaine Page Dawna Elaine Page Dawna Elaine Page Lesley Belleau Lesley Belleau Arnold James Isbister John Berry John Berry John Berry William H Flowers Minnie Matoush Section 1 - Lessons Maxine Matilpi Drew Hayden Taylor Rebeka Tabobondung Barbara-Helen Hill Brent Peacock-Cohen Richard Green Dawn Russell Dawna Elaine Page Robert Vincent Harris Vera Newman Janet Marie Rogers Mek-ee-da-ga (Put a Blanket on Someone Sleeping) / 12 My Elder is Better Than Your Elder/ 14 Reconciliation / 17 My Take on the Term 'Elder'/ 18 Coyote the Scientist / 22 Grandpa's Mystique/ 24 Lumps and Bumps / 28 Juniper Berries / 30 Pocahontas Barbie / 32 Making Waves/ 33 The Last Flood / 35 Section 2 - Gifts Section 5 - International and Words from our Youth Roxanne Lindley Richard O 'Halloran Robert Vincent Harris Brent Peacock-Cohen The Gift/ 38 Believe/ 44 Awakenings / 45 The Reason Why We Do and The Reason Why We Don't / 46 Gordon de Frane Indian Summer / 49 John Garfield Barlow The Gift/ 60 Marcelle Marie Gareau The Keeper of Tradition / 64 Eric Ostrowidzki Ruby Mossflower's Magic Quilt/ 67 Dawna Elaine Page Familiar / 72 Section 3 - Knowledge Helen-Anne Embry John Berry Naomi Walser Steve Russell Vera Manuel Charlotte Mearns Karen Pheasant Julaine Dokis Brent Peacock-Cohen The Knowledge/ 76 Old Man/ 77 A Day in the Life of an Elder / 78 What Indians Want I 80 Justice/ 82 Knowledge Keepers / 85 Untitled / 88 Wisdom/ 91 Sweetness of Samson's Lion/ 92 4 Thank You/ 96 For The Little Sisters / 97 Spirituality / 98 Blanket Statements / 100 Bloodline/ 101 For All My Relations/ 102 March Moon / 104 Silent Drum / 105 Indian Eyes / 108 Going Home / 109 Homelands / 113 Sundown/ 114 Reflections on Water / 115 Wings of the Morning I 116 Dear Beloved Child/ 120 ! I I I International: Mena Mac Youth: Kawennenhawi Nelson Elizabeth Kruger Elizabeth Kruger Elizabeth Kruger Preston Gregoire Anita Louie Audrey Avery Vanessa Nelson Joel Morgan Joel Morgan Joel Morgan Joel Morgan Jamie L. John Stephanie L Squakin L Reconciliation: Elders as Knowledge Keepers/ 125 Reunited Hearts/ 129 Prayer/ 133 Us and Stickgame / 134 When That Day Comes/ 136 Residential School/ 138 When I.../ 139 One Unlucky Day / 140 Rokstentsherak:sen / 144 Cedar/ 147 Fire/ 148 Eagle/ 149 Water/ 150 Modern Warrior / 151 Tupa (Great Grandmother)/ 154 Biographies / 158 5 - Leonard Peltier Leonard Peltier A Message to Our Young People from Leonard Peltier Another lockdown. There will be no Sweat. Not today. I sit alone in my cell, waiting for that door to be mercifully opened again, and my thoughts tum to you. The editors of Gatherings honored me by inviting me - an Elder, they said (smile) - to write an article about reconciliation for our young people. I have thought long and hard about what I should say to you. What can I say that will heal the physical, emotional and spiritual wounds caused by the mistreatment of our peoples by others? And what about the harm we have done to one another and to ourselves? What magic words can I say to you, our youth, that will join our hearts and souls and make us all one family - as we are supposed to be and as it was in generations past? I decided to speak to you from my heart. There is no other way. I can only tell you what I myself have seen, the experiences of my generation. As a young child in a boarding school, I was taught - through outright brutality - that my people had been saved from a life of pure savagery. It was my own people, I was told, who indiscriminately killed one another. There were only a handful ofus left, after all, when our saviors found us (smile). We sold our mothers, sisters and daughters into slavery. We practiced a heathen religion. We had no political structure by which to govern our Nations. We were ruled by madmen who executed those who committed only minor violations of our customs. The list of our crimes, believe me, was endless. I and my fellow students became ashamed of our black hair, our brown skin, our Native features, our names, our languages, our religion, our culture and our history. We were beaten into submission. We became disconnected from Mother Earth, our people, ourselves. We tried to ease the pain with alcohol, glue, gasoline and - some of us - with hard drugs. Others of us chose a quicker means of suicide. We became hand6 7 Leonard Peltier Leonard Peltier out Indians. Everything we had believed in and practiced as parents and grandparents down through the centuries became redundant in our hearts and minds. Many of us forgot how to love and protect our children, our people and our Nations. Then, we thankfully heard the whispers of our Elders. We, the Indigenous peoples of the northern hemisphere, were first called Indians by Christopher Columbus and his crew of sailors when in 1492, lost at sea, they landed on our shores. It seems this is when all our troubles began. In only a short one hundred years, our population declined. We were as trees in an out-of-control forest fire. Our Nations became as ashes from our fire pits. In the name of civilization, the destruction of our peoples and our ways continued into the 20th century. Our invaders forced their way of life, culture and religion on us. And, of course, they rewrote our history. Through overheard conversations between our Nations' grandmothers and grandfathers, we came to know that there had been millions of us. Ours were advanced civilizations. Some of our peoples even built large cities - like the one near to what is now known as St. Louis, Missouri. Some of our ancestors built monuments thousands of feet high. Others carved dwellings into the mountainsides. Our knowledge of agriculture and medicine far exceeded that of the Europeans. In some Nations, the wise clan mothers among us decided the important issues our people faced. All were accepted, especially those who were gifted. We were connected, related - to sky and earth, to all creatures, to all humankind. When those of my generation heard these truths, a light ignited within us. Speaking from our hearts, our Elders told us, is our first duty - our first obligation to ourselves and to our peoples. So, we spoke out - against oppression, injustice, the destruction of our culture and the violation of Mother Earth. We resisted - we resist still because we remembered the most important lesson of all. Each of us must be a survivor. That resistance was our first step towards reconciliation - the restoration of harmony with the Great Spirit, within ourselves, among each other, and between all of humankind. Reconciliation - The Great Healing - begins with each and every one ofus. 8 First, honour sky and earth. Look not to man-made laws for justice but to the natural laws of the Great Mystery. By that law, there will be freedom for all of us to live in peace and harmony. We must show respect towards others but, most of all, for ourselves. Be proud. Embrace your culture and never regret being who you are - an Indian. Love yourself. Love your people, too. Remember who you are. Remember the old ways. Teach your children and their children. Be good to one another. And remember the Elders. The Elders of your Nations ask for your love and understanding. We are ordinary, often flawed, and may even have done you wrong in times past. Let us show you that we have become better human beings. Let us show you that we love you. I love you. My life is yours. Love, also, the diversity of humanity. Look upon other peoples of the Earth with respect and tolerance instead of prejudice, distrust, and hatred. How else can we live as the Creator intended, as sisters and brothers, all of one human family? Yours is not a legacy of hopelessness and despair, but of strength and resiliency. Continue the struggle against selfishness and weakness so that our peoples may live. We can do this together - your generation and mine. Remember what Sitting Bull said, "As individual fingers we can easily be broken, but all together we make a mighty fist." Together, we will survive. Mitakuye Oyasin, In the Spirit of Crazy Horse, Leonard Peltier A limited edition series of 16' x 20' canvas reproductions of three of Leonard's paintings are being offered for sale to help raise funds so he can continue his fight for freedom. (See author Biography on page 159) I j 9 Section 1 Lessons I L p Maxine Matilpi Maxine Matilpi Mek-ee-da-ga (Putting a Blanket on Someone Sleeping) Over the years, I've heard it said that you can't really understand a culture without also understanding the language. My 95-year-old Kwakiutl grandfather, Papa (Willie Hunt), is trying to teach me Kwak'wala. I'm desperately trying to learn. One day Papa pointed to his bed and said, "If I'm on the bed and you put a blanket on me, we call that mek-ee-da-ga." I repeated, "Mek-ee-da-ga." Papa continued. "If I catch a fish and let him go, same thing. We call that mek-ee-da-ga." I was confused, trying to understand the connections between these two seemingly very different concepts. In my mind, catching a fish and letting it go is very different from covering up a sleeping person who may be cold. Later, over at the Band Office, I tell Albert Wilson, an Elder in our community, about the new word I've learned and of its two meanings. He laughs and tells me it has another meaning. "If we honour somebody in the Bighouse and we put a button blanket on him, we call that mek-ee-da-ga. And miraculously it all comes together for me: putting a blanket on someone sleeping, catching a fish and letting it go, honouring someone in the Bighouse are linked concepts; they all have to do with respect, honour, care, nurturing, giving life. A few days later I came across a picture of my mother with my baby son. I had taken the picture some twenty years ago when my eldest son was just seven months old. This was before our village's Bighouse was built. It was a cold and windy afternoon and a ceremony was taking place outdoors. My mother was holding my son, Ali, keeping him warm underneath her button blanket. I snapped what I saw as merely a cozy and colourful moment between my mother and my son. Now I wonder what that picture might say to a Kwak'wala speaker such as my mother. My mother didn't learn English until she went to school at the age of nine and I know that as an adult - even after she had been speaking English for twenty years - she would sometimes confuse English words. When I was a teenager I remember 12 her telling me that she often mixed up the English words for "feathers" and "fur." I thought this odd and told her so and she explained then that "feathers" and "fur" are both coverings of non-human creatures. As I was taking the photo, from my non-Kwak'wala speaker's side of the camera lens, I saw a colourful picture: my mom and my baby son. Twenty years later and three months after my mother's death, I see a whole new picture: Mek-ee-da-ga. A grandson being honoured, kept warm, given life. And I've come to understand why, in order to understand a culture, we also need to understand the language. Ha-La-Kasla. 13 Drew Hayden Taylor Drew Hayden Taylor MY ELDER IS BETTER THAN YOUR ELDER It seems that in the simple world of Eldership (i.e. the fine art of being an Aboriginal Elder), there is apparently a hierarchy that I was not aware existed. This became apparent to me recently when I was involved in a conversation about this certain Elder that will remain nameless for obvious reasons. This one individual openly scoffed at this person being considered a wise and respected Elder, citing the fact that he once was a raging alcoholic. "He was the worst drunk in the village!" this person said with conviction. Now it's no surprise to anyone how one's past experiences and mistakes can follow you for the rest of your life ... Elders are no different. Mistakes are buoys on the river of life - they can help you either navigate the river or send you up shit creek without a paddle. But I didn't realize those mistakes can also negate the positive achievements a person could accomplish during the remaining days of his/her existence. I was truly surprised to find out that only those who have never drank in their lives, never lied, never abused tobacco, never swore, walked counter-clockwise at a clockwise ceremony, and were never human, could be considered the only real Elders. I learn something new everyday. I guess Priests and Nuns who hear their Calling late in life can't really become true Priests and Nuns since more than likely, sometime in their past they've taken the Lord's name in vain or had sex with a Protestant, or sampled some Devil's Food Cake. Maybe all three at once. It's also no secret that the best drug and alcohol counsellors are usually those people who have lived the darker side of life and know of what they speak. Otherwise it would be like learning to water ski from somebody who's afraid of the water. You can read all you want, take as many workshops as you like, but unless you've wrestled with those demons yourself, there's only so much hands on experience you can bring to the job. That's why I'm puzzled by this reaction to Elders who had a life before they became Elders. Handsome Lake, a Seneca in the late 1700s, is considered by many Iroquois to be the second great messenger, after the Peacemaker himself, sent to his people by the 14 Creator to teach the wisdom of the Great Peace, part of the Iroquois philosophy/beliefs. However, his visions came to him during a four day coma induced by a rather severe bout of drinking. The point being, Handsome Lake cleaned up his act and became a very well respected orator and teacher. Gandhi, a very different type of Indian, but I'm fairly certain he can still be included in the classification of "wise Elder," was a lawyer before he became the GANDHI we're all familiar with. Now that's a hell of a bigger obstacle to overcome than alcoholism if you want to be a holy man. Buddha was a spoiled prince before he saw the light, walked his path of wisdom and developed his big belly. Perhaps it was Nietzsche, who may or may not be considered an Elder depending on your philosophical learnings, who said it best when he wrote in a rather over used cliche "That which does not destroy us, makes us stronger." Maybe Nietzsche was an Elder because it certainly sounds like many an Eider's story I've heard. The fortitude I find in many Elders can sometimes only be forged from experience and pain. I believe it was William Blake who coined the term, "The palace of wisdom lies on the road of excess." Wisdom comes from experience. Experience comes from trial and error. And sometimes error means waking up one morning in a place you don't know, smelling like something you don't want to know, realizing you might not have many more mornings left to wake up like this. You have to travel before you know the countryside. Several years ago I attended an Elders conference. There were a bunch ofus in a large room waiting to be instilled with knowledge by this visiting Elder, who's name I'm ashamed to say I have forgotten. Several young people took out their pens and paper, ready to learn diligently. But this method of learning was not to be. The Elder quietly asked them to put their note pads away. "Writing something down is asking permission to forget it" was what he said, and it made sense. Not more than a few days ago, I came across a quote in a newspaper. I think the quote was from Plato, that ancient Greek philosopher dude from 2500 years ago. And it said "Writing is the instrument of forgetfulness." Sound familiar? Two wise individuals from primarily oral cultures. It seems great minds think alike. 15 Rebeka Tabobondung Drew Hayden Taylor What is an Elder? How do you define one? I don't know. Some say you can't be one until you are a grandfather. Others say it has to be conferred upon you by the community, not merely by self-identifying. I've heard some say there's an inner glow that you recognize. But perhaps the more important question is who has the authority to say somebody isn't an Elder? Let ye who is without wisdom, cast the first doubt. Reconciliation We are waking up to our history from a forced slumber We are breathing it into our lungs so it will be part of us again It will make us angry at first because we will see how much you stole from us and for how long you watched us suffer we will see how you see us and how when we copied your ways it killed our own We will cry and cry and cry because we can never be the same again But we will go home to cry and we will see ourselves in this huge mess and we will gently whisper the circle back and it will be old and it will be new Then we will breathe our history back to you you will feel how alive and strong it is and you will feel yourself become a part of it And it will shock you at first because it is too big to see all at once and you won't want to believe it you will see how you see us all the disaster in your ways how much we lost And you will cry and cry and cry because we can never be the same again But we will cry with you and we will see ourselves in this huge mess and we will gently whisper the circle back and it will be old and it will be new 16 17 Barbara-Helen Hill Barbara-Helen Hill My Take on the Term 'Elder' I think I'm sour on the term 'Elder'. Maybe it is because I have seen so much abuse not only of the term but also by the 'Elders'. The term 'Elder' has been bantered around so much for the past few years and I've found that some of the people who call themselves 'Elders' are self serving ego-maniacs. Some of the people are abusers who have gotten older and some are takers. These so-called 'Elders' take your money, give you some of the words that have been passed around from speaker to speaker and then later on show themselves in their true colours. Now not all speakers are like this. Not all old people are like this. Not all community leaders are like this. And most important of all, not all of the people fall for these so called 'Elders.' Here in Haudenosaunee country we have some people calling themselves 'Elders'. They are older than I and in some cases, I guess, they are more knowledgeable in some areas. I have a problem with the use of the term 'Elder' because Haudenosaunee or Iroquois do not have 'Elders'. We have clan mothers, faith keepers, chiefs, and grandmothers and grandfathers, aunties and uncles. The term 'Elder', only came in during the last ten or fifteen years of the healing and recovery movement. With this healing and recovery movement, we have many people who have found jobs being 'Elders'. Many years ago while working and living within the Ojibwa, Cree, and other nations I visited with people who were very angry with certain 'Elders'. They had been sexually and spiritually abused by these men and wanted nothing to do with them or their traditional ways. I don't believe this happens in all communities, but it does happen. This is why I'm so opposed to the self-appointed 'Elders' or community members that put others up on pedestals. We as traditional people - Ojibwa, Cree, Sault, Blood, Blackfoot, Haudenosaunee - are not meant to be put on pedestals or held higher than anyone else. We are human and there is no one person better than another. I'm not sure what the answer is or if there is even a question about the term 'Elder'. I guess those who choose to call a person an 'Elder' may be using the term with respect and as a term of endearment. Maybe I'm just sour on the way the people choose to behave when they are given the title 'Elder'. Maybe I just wish that the 'Elders' have some self respect and respect for others so that they don't use and 18 I abuse others. The most painful story I've ever heard was of a young woman who went to an 'Elder' in the province of Manitoba and put her trust and faith in that man. He broke that trust and sexually abused her in the Sweatlodge. That woman left her traditional ways and refused to even acknowledge being Indian. I never heard what happened to her, I'm not sure she was able to even survive because she was so traumatized. I myself experienced something of that sort by a man who was revered as an 'Elder' in the western provinces. I was at a conference here in Ontario and that man was sitting near me at a table. While he engaged me in a conversation about something another speaker had said he proceeded to place his hand on my leg. I hadn't even been introduced to him yet he felt he had the right to be that familiar with me. That is improper behavior. Now that may seem like a little thing to you but it was not to me. In our ways, a man is not to touch even a hair of your head unless you are married to him, never mind trying to touch your leg. I walked out of the conference. There are many more stories like this. There are those who have been "guided" to do things that have ended up in tragic ways. Now you may say that the 'Elder' only guided. Maybe that is true to some extent. But when someone has been traumatized or abused in anyway they are extremely vulnerable. I don't believe that an 'Elder' is any better than a priest in a boarding school if they take advantage of the vulnerable. 'Elders' need to have the love of self, self-respect, and respect of others in the community before they step out there in that position. They need to have come to terms with their abuse and their trauma in their lives. When I say "come to terms" I do not mean they are to have shelved it, buried it, or mentally dealt with it. I mean that they need to heal the pain around it. Sometimes, the trauma or abuse doesn't come to surface until they are older. Sometimes they carry shame and guilt around an abuse that is not theirs to carry. While carrying that shame they abuse others to "get even" or because they don't even know they are doing it. Sometimes what is abusive to one is not felt as abuse to others. It depends on the trauma suffered as a child. It is when they are in a position of power over others and continue to abuse that it is reprehensible. I j 19 Barbara-Helen Hill Barbara-Helen Hill Becoming an 'Elder' in the communities that have 'Elders', in the sense of wise spiritual leaders, takes a lot more than just getting older. It means having faced those painful memories and healed the emotional pain around childhood sexual, physical, emotional abuse. It means having gotten to the place of forgiveness. It means having gotten to the place where you don't take on the troubles of the world but you are willing to listen to those troubles. It means being able to guide a person to a place of goodness out of a place of anger and hatred. It means being able to guide a person through their pain in a way that will not be harmful to them or anyone else. It means having made peace with themselves and the Creator. There is a difference between being an 'Elder' and being an older person. It is up to the person seeking that 'Elder' to know the difference. When a person is abused as a young child they often don't have the wisest judgment when it comes to picking an 'Elder' if they haven't resolved those pains from the abuse. That poor judgment may lead them to a man that others recommend from their experience but then that 'Elder' may not have healed their pain from their own abuse and will abuse. There are some questions about what is abuse. You have people who have been abused in boarding schools at the ages of five through sixteen. They haven't had the time to grow in a healthy way with the teachings from healthy parents. These people have then raised families in unhealthy ways. They then have become older or elderly. Their children have again raised children in unhealthy ways because they haven't been taught any different. Remember you learn how to be a parent by being parented and watching how your parents raised you and your siblings. You also learn how to be married by watching the actions within your household between your mother and father. If you are raised by unhealthy parents or by priests, nuns and spinster teachers and unmarried caretakers you don't exactly have good role models. All of this is abuse to some. The language, songs, movies, television programs, books and advertisements are selling with sex or selling sex. Jokes are prevalent that are sexual, and/or racist. Watching movies with sex and or violence at a young age is abusive to children. Their little minds and spirits don't have the capabilities to decipher right from wrong. It is abusive for them to see sexual actions of any kinds at a young age. Growing up in homes where these things are allowed, a child is being abused. Sex is for adults. Adults that have grown up emotionally mentally and spiritually to become their own person and ~ake decisions based on their own belief systems to make healthy choices, don't allow children to watch those kinds of movies or attend those sexually explicit movies and concerts. While other adults who are not making healthy choices for themselves or their children then become older. Which older person are you going to go to for advice. It is the responsibility of the 'Elder' to make sure that he or she is clean and sober and healthy in all four bodies - mentally, physically, emotionally and spiritually. It is the responsibility of the person seeking the 'Elder' to trust their inner selves, their gut feelings and run in the opposite direction if you get an uncomfortable feeling from the 'Elder'. If a young man is starting out on his healing path he needs to seek men that he admires that are clean and sober and walk the talk. If a young woman is starting out her journey then she needs to spend time with healthy women. There are many things that other people 'Elders' - can tell you, but the answer ultimately comes from within you. If you were abused by an 'Elder', then my advice is the same as I received from other traditional leaders; name names. We were intimidated as children when we were abused. We didn't know at that time that we could tell someone safe. Know that now. You can find someone safe and name names. 'Elders' in the sense of spiritual leaders have a responsibility. Our responsibility is to see that no 'Elder' or elderly person is abused. But it is also our responsibility to see that we are not abused either. 20 21 Brent Peacock-Cohen Brent Peacock-Cohen Coyote the Scientist The Creator saw this problem and taught the children of the Eagle and Bear to fish. Time began with a big bang? That is not what I was told. Two cousins, an eagle and a bear sat on a stump. They talked for a long time about who was who and what was what. From where they were sitting they saw Snk'lip (Coyote) go down by the creek. They decided to go down and investigate. Snk'lip was watching a leaf float down the creek. "What are you doing?" they asked. "I am watching this leaf to predict the speed of the creek." "Oooh." so they watched him. Soon he stopped watching the leaf and he put a branch into the middle of the creek. "What are you doing now?" "I am looking at the degree to which the creek pulls the branch and by the curvature of the branch will let me predict the force of the creek." "Oh." They watched Snk'lip play his games. After a time Snk'lip let go of the branch and it floated away down the creek. Snk'lip walked out to the middle of the creek and placed a rock beside another. "What are you doing now?" "I am looking at the velocity of the water going between the two rocks." "Oh." They continued to watch Snk'lip. By and by the Eagle and Bear started to get hungry. "Catch us a fish." They asked Snk'lip. Snk'lip looked at them very sad and said, "I cannot, but I can use the velocity, speed and force of the water to predict the hydraulic potential. By knowing the hydraulic potential, we can harness the power and use it to do work for us." "But we need fish to eat." "Maybe one day my mathematical measurements will help formulate an answer to our problems." "But we need fish now." "That, I can not help with." The Eagle and the Bear starved. Oh Creator what foresight you had to put the animals here first to show us the way I I I I I I I I I I I I I But your brother God created an ambitious race people who saw themselves above animals they block our way Oh Creator do not forsake us let Fox send us Snk'lip again to replenish ourselves To right our wrongs and restore the balance I l I I I I I i I I l 22 j 23 Richard Green Richard Green Grandpa's Mystique Grandpa had class. He had a reputation for guiding you to the answer but never butting in until you figured things out for yourself. Letting things be, perhaps, became the greatest lesson I ever learned and it came during age nine at a haying bee. His daughters, sons, their offspring, my mother and I, plus a few neighbours came together every summer to gather the hay for the barn animals. I lived in the city, so for me the haying harvest meant a time of joy; I knew there would be camaraderie, pie and cake. For the adults it meant a time of sweat and renewed acquaintances. As soon as the last helpers arrived, and the men went into the field, us kids formed a group and went outdoors to decide who would be 'it' for hide-and-seek. I didn't know all the kids' names but it didn't matter since they were kids. Somebody named Jimmy leaned against the house while he covered his eyes and began counting. Everybody scattered. Some kids went into the cattails behind the house in the dried-up swamp. One shinnied up the large oak tree on the edge of the woods. When I started to follow him, he waved me away and I rushed toward the barn. I ran inside, glanced around and squinted through the cracks of the plank walls. If Jimmy came along, there were plenty of nooks and crannies to hide me. "Ninety-five, ninety-nine, a hundred, ready or not, here I come," Jimmy shouted as he darted away from the house to search for us. I saw him coming straight for the barn and I bolted. I went out the back and ran for the hay field using the barn as a shield. I saw a tree in the field and ran toward it. Workers drew hay from mounds and threw it on a horse driven wagon with their pitch forks. Two of them watched as I scampered up the tree quick as a cat and crouched into a wide crook in the branches. From the barn, I heard Jimmy yelling, "I see you. I know you're in here. I'm gonna git you!" As I snuggled deeper into the crook, a branch suddenly snapped. I fell to the field and looked at the barn to see if Jimmy was coming. I crawled behind a hay mound and somebody dumped hay on me. "He can't see you now," somebody else laughed. As the wagon move on, I lay still as I could. I heard Jimmy's 24 voice fading as he ran toward the cattails. Hay dust got up my nose and made me sneeze. As I sat up to brush myself off, I saw a baby rabbit 00 the ground in front of me. "Hello," I said, but the rabbit lay still with his little ears pressed against his back. I had never seen a baby cottontail before. I marveled at his big eyes, his little puff of a tail and his stillness. I wondered why he didn't run and decided that maybe he liked me. If he did, I'd take him home and he could be my pet. "You're the cutest little thing I've ever seen." I said, hoping to win his favor. But the rabbit remained still as a stone. I decided to let him get used to me and lay down with him face to face. I didn't even move when Jimmy came running up, slapped me on the shoulder and ran off toward the house. I carefully worked my hands beneath the fluffy, little ball and held it against my belly. When I got to the house, all the kids gathered 'round. Jimmy tried to pet the little bunny, but I pulled away just in time. If anybody's going to be the first to pet him, it should be me ... I found him. One of the girls said, "Can I have him?" Another asked, "What's his name?" "Hippety," I announced quickly as an indication of ownership. "Well, Delbert's 'it' this time, " said Jimmy. "Let's get going. How're you gonna play carrying a rabbit?" "I'm not," I said. "He needs something to eat." I walked up the wobbly concrete-block steps and went into the kitchen. Big, boiling kettles covered the top of the iron stove, so I took the bunny over to a safe comer and set him down next to the wood box. "Don't worry, Hippety." I sat next to him and leaned against the wall. "When we get home, I'm going to build you a real nice cage, probably one made out of chicken wire." Grandpa turned a page of the newspaper. "You think he'll like living in a cage?" "Well, chickens do," I said quickly. "You got chickens living in their coops." "That's because they give us eggs. That rabbit going to give you eggs?" "No, guess not." He had me thinking. I really didn't know much about rabbits. I knew when we visited Grandpa in early winter we ate rabbits for supper, but I thought those were different rabbits. Suddenly, 25 Richard Green I felt even more protective toward Hippety. He needed saving at any cost. "I... I'll take good care of him," I stammered. "How do you know it's a he?" Grandpa put the paper on the table and bent forward for a closer look. "What if it's a She?" "How do you tell?" I looked hopefully at Grandpa. "Can you tell?" "Well if it's a she, through pain, she gives life to lots of little rabbits. She makes a nest for them, feeds them, washes them, and one day one of them turns up missing. So she looks high and low and waits through the scary night when Tawiskaron rules and becomes broken hearted when she can't find the favorite of all her little children." I look at Hippety and hear Grandpa push his chair out. He goes out the door and I guess he's going to the field to check haying progress. One of my aunties comes in to check the kettle of potatoes. "Got any lettuce?" I ask. "And how about some water?" In a flash she hands me a big, green lettuce leaf and a saucer. "You can get water from the pail," she says. "Don't be surprised if it doesn't eat nothing." I spill some water from the dipper into the saucer and return to Hippety. I put the lettuce next to his nose and marvel at his cute little front paws. He just sits there. He doesn't even wrinkle his little nose. He's got to be hungry; he's got to eat or he'll die. When the men come out of the field before dusk, everybody sits outside and eats. There's com and potatoes and chicken and cake and pies and everybody partakes in this happy, festive occasion. Everybody but me. Hippety hasn't moved all day. I don't know what's wrong with the little creature. I wish as hard as I can but he still doesn't eat or drink. Suddenly, my aunty's standing in the doorway, "Aren't you going to eat anything? Food's getting cold." "No, I guess I'm not very hungry." I carefully put my hands under Hippety and lean him against my belly. I push the kitchen door open with my shoulder and slip on a loose concrete block. Hippety flips out and falls on his side in the tall grass. Instead of running, he quickly moves back into his crouch position and waits. I watch his little sides go in and out when he breathes. He's the cutest, cuddliest thing I've ever seen - even cuter than a kitten. I want to pick him up and feel his soft fur against my face. 26 r I , I j · Richard Green Instead, I put my hands under him and raise him up against my belly. The sun is setting and twilight doesn't last very long. Ifl put him back where I found him maybe his Mum will still be searching for him. I find the tree and the flattened hay stubs an_d carefully r~tum him to his exact place. I slowly get up and look at him one last time. He's only moved once all day. I tum and run toward the house. With all that food there must be something left for me. I don't know if Hippety's mum came for him or not. Even if she didn't at least he was back where he belonged. I do know that the next morning only dew covered the ground where I put Hippety. And when I came back from the field and looked toward the house, I saw a curtain from Grandpa's bedroom window rustle back into place. 27 I Dawn Russell lump was on my body. I timidly lifted the bottom of my shirt, afraid of her reaction. "Looks like you got chicken pox," she said, then walked away. I thought she was crazy. You can't tell chicken pox by one tiny lump. She got on the phone to my school to let them know I wouldn't be in for a week or so. I tried to downgrade it to just a spider bite, but she got out the baking soda and said "You're gonna need this later". Then she walked out the door with a suitcase. What did she know, she was going into surgery and was on pain pills. Over the next twenty four hours, I became covered in 'lumps'. Lumps and Bumps (are one and the same) Grandma K. always smelled like dog biscuits. I didn't really mind because she had a great dog and her smell was a testament to the love she felt for him. One cold October night her dog escaped from the yard. Grandma K. in her raincoat and cane stepped out into the street to look for her four legged companion and was struck by a car. Grandma K. was eventually okay, but she needed surgery. She was going to leave for the coast on a bus, and my mom and I would look after the dog at Grandma's house for a week. I was in Grade Seven and an expert at everything. I knew it all and I couldn't get any better. But, the night before Grandma K. left, I had to stay with her and go to school in the morning. It would have been okay ifl wasn't so damned scared of her. She was four foot nine inches tall and had been a dart playing, bowling champ, local hockey fan, foster parent, twice weekly church going Weight Watchers since before I was born. She had strength, more than I could ever comprehend. Her husband died after a painful fight with lung cancer. They both smoked three packs a day, but Grandma K. quit when people started saying that it might be dangerous. Whenever I had to stay with her, I always slept in Grandpa's old room. That totally freaked me out. That was the room farthest from the T.V. Grandma K. thought it was all too adult. Stuff like the news, Love Boat and every crime show was off limits to me. I didn't even dare peak around the comer for fear of Grandma's wrath. Grandma K. sent me to bed at eight-thirty, an hour before my regular bedtime. I was fine with that, I was having trouble relieving myself of the taste of stewed tomatoes. Grandma got me up in the morning to eat porridge. Yum. As I was getting dressed, I noticed a small red mark on my chest beside my left nipple. I saw an episode of All in the Family where Edith found a lump on her breast. In Grade Seven, a lump and a bump are one and the same. My thoughts raced to Grandpa's frail body. It was the room, the cancer room. I asked Grandma K. if she could help me figure out what this 28 Dawn Russell L 29 Dawna Elaine Page t (Karonhiakwas) Dawna Elaine Page (Karonhiakwas) Juniper Berries our people tom from the earth our love tom from our hands hey yeh ho yeh, hey yeh ho yeh as great-grandmother's bones disintegrate into the dark soil so I went to the concrete city brushed the dirt from my hands and closed my eyes. my people buried beneath soil the soil buried beneath stone so must I bury my heart and my song hey yeh ho yeh, hey yeh ho yeh. you walk above your grave unafraid of falling the clouds beneath your moccasins scatter into stars into silence hey ho. I hear your voice. I see the moon's reflection in your wild eyes. come to the forest in the shadows curve the twig taste the leaf this drop of rain will quench your thirst. our people alive within us our passion alive in our bones. my hands are bleeding and broken from the digging but the dark earth beneath my nails 30 is enough for One to walk on. hey yeh ho yeh, hey yeh ho yeh walk with me. let the land rise with each stride let our tears fill the river let the smoke rise the strawberry blossom the song begin again hey yeh ho yeh, hey yeh ho! I I I L 31 Robert Vincent Harris Pocahontas Barbie Tribute to my Warrior Woman Aunt/Elder (work in progress) Three years old, was Thirty-six years old, she was loved by all who would take her home, buy her a drink, she is your Barbie, to undress, twist and throw, a dispossessed spirit, a life survivor, coping through pain too great to look at clearly, her Grand Ole Opry was the only way she knew how to cope, Coming down the gravel road, sounds of a muffler dragging over the prairie hills, It's Conway Twitty, Hank Snow, and Loretta Lynn, With Ms. Pocahontas sitting in the back seat, bruised fingers tight around Ole Jack Daniel's neck, They all understood her when nobody else could, through wafting haze of blue ocean tides of smoke, "Hey, Jimmy Reeves, pour another round for Hank, heck, another round for all my friends." "Waylon. Dance with me cowboy, I'll be your Indian Pocahontas Princess." "Loretta, my coal miners daughter, sing me a song." "I can't do that Ms. Pocahontas, it's time to go." "Just one more dance please, Please." "No, I am not ready." "Shhh ... sweetie, I brought your buckskin shawl." "Last call!" Moist cold earth, broken teeth, taste of rusty nails in her mouth, frozen black hair covers her pale limbs. 32 r Vera Newman Making Waves I The wind knocks me backwards as I bop up and down in the waves, all of a sudden I'm bouncing amongst the kelp patch and it slips over my body. It feels gentle and sensuous, can't believe I ended up here. I was just trying to hide from my Ada and the chores. I knew I shouldn't have jumped into the canoe. She didn't even see me either. I just heard her calling my name. I don't know why I was trying to get away from packing water. I knew very well it was my tum today to pack Ada's water. I didn't want to leave my Indian baseball game. I was having too much fun. Now I bop amongst the kelp because I out tricked myself again. When will I ever learn? Hey, what's going on, all of a sudden my legs are caught up and I can't move. I wonder if I should yell for help. I'll try to get myself loose by kicking around, oh no. I'm stuck now and even my hands are caught. One big yell for all I'm worth, hopefully someone will hear me. I keep swallowing the water when I'm trying to yell. Oh, thank God, here's a log: I've got one hand free. I'll hang on while I'm untangling myself. Oh, the water all of a sudden, it feels safe and warm. I have to keep thinking about why I'm here. I know now, I have to listen when I'm told that I have to help out my Ada. The leafy part of the kelp slowly unravels itself from my legs. I think about Ada who never complains when she's making us something to eat. Oh thank God, the thin, stringy end of the kelp was much easier to untangle cause I could just tear it with my free hand. Brings me back to Ada, she's been so tired lately and I could have made her day easier if I just packed her water like I was supposed to. You know Ada always makes me feel so close in spite of my naughtiness. She's willing to remain playful and accepting so much, like our water, it can make us feel so safe and warm, if we don't approach it with haste and hurry. Her hands so worn with age still remain soft and gentle and she touches my shoulder and looks into my eyes. 33 Vera Newman Janet Marie Rogers Ada sent out Dada to come out and get me on his skiff, she was the one who heard my cry for help. When I arrived she got me something to drink and she asked Dada to sing the baby song for me. I will always remember the song, for when I'm blessed with grandchildren. I will sing Dada's song for them. The Last Flood In a land With tricky water Reserves Sand bags at the ready Waiting to sop up Emotional messes Of legacies Left by Churches Threat of floods Permeate the air Spins prickly electricity Over unsuspecting vegetation While winter snows melt in Spring Making heavy water falls Speed and tear Away protective rock layers Revealing soft brown clay Of the original people Pre-contact people Pre-broken-hearted people Before removal Before numerous losses Too many to mention Dams burst open And confuse the fish Comfortable with steadier pace All Hell breaks loose With memory floods Uncontrollable currents Rising levels, spill onto Unfamiliar territory Out of it's element Painful and pleasurable 34 35 Janet Marie Rogers Chaos Families can only wait For levels to subside Leaving once hard lands Weepy, wanting For heat Evaporation New crusts will form New life will be born Many generations away From floods Section 2 Gifts 36 Roxanne Lindley Roxanne Lindley The Gift This story, like most of our Okanagan stories began many years ago. Coyote, known for his big ego was sitting on a hill having some deep thoughts. As he looked down upon the village, he saw People who had the most undesirable qualities. Look at Kilawna (grizzly bear), he was very fierce and had a reputation for being very powerful; but very few could tolerate his strong musky smell. Sasquatch was someone who People honoured before harvesting and someone who could travel between the realms; however, he just couldn't get the hang of being gentle. The Rainbow Trout, a truly beautiful fish could swim sideways, forwards and backwards; however, if something like an old tree fell across the creek it often would stop the Trout from traveling. Coyote felt pretty dam smart for being able to see these things about others in his village; too bad mirrors weren't around! Coyote was all puffed up, and really liking himself when two Chipmunks ran by. They were so happy and excited about the stash of nuts they found, that they didn't even pay attention to Coyote. Damn them, Coyote thought, they really are worse than a couple of Magpies! As he listened to them chattering, his only thought was about how much energy they wasted. Coyote believed no one else really cared and farted in their direction, just to show them what he thought of them. Meadowlark sat on top of the pine tree and watched as the poor little Chipmunks ran away coughing and gagging. Coyote, by then, was rolling on the ground holding his sides laughing until there were tears in his eyes. Meadowlark felt bad, and thought if she sang her song the Chipmunks would feel a little better. Coyote loved to hear a good song, and almost liked Meadowlark for a minute. But, he knows Meadowlarks only stick around for early spring and they're off like farts in the wind. They should stick around all year, Coyote thought as he looked up in the clouds; imagine how their songs would sound on a crisp wintry day. Coyote, must have dozed off or maybe he even had a vision. Hummingbird came to him, and as she flittered about she told Coyote 38 I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I l many important things. She told Coyote that he had pine gum in his eyes, for he chose to only see certain things. She told him that soon he would receive another teaching. She told Coyote that he had to learn to see with his ears and listen with his eyes and then she flew away. Hummingbird was with Coyote in his vision, and now she was here with him in the village; she knew that she had things to do. Hummingbird knew it was time to sit with the Stick People, for they were the backbone of the Okanagan. The Stick People were pretty important, and you just couldn't show up. Hummingbird knew she had to approach their Spirits first, to do that she would need to have a ceremony. She had to search for just the right plant; the one that would give her the sweet potent nectar. Hummingbird knew that she would have to gather for ten days to get the right amount for the ceremony. Finally everything was ready. As Hummingbird went into the Sweatlodge, she knew that she held a huge responsibility on her tiny little shoulders. She knew that the Spirits would be with her as she sipped the sweet juice from her birch basket. Many Spirits entered the lodge during the purification ceremony, and Hummingbird knew immediately when Eagle Spirit came into the Sweatlodge. Eagle Spirit always created a strong presence, and he told Hummingbird that she had to get Kilawna, Sasquatch, the Rainbow Trout, Chipmunk, Meadowlark, the Stick People and herself together for a special Sweat before the next new moon. He told her of the importance of telling everyone that they were coming to share themselves; and together, under Eagle Spirit's guidance they were going to create a gift for the People. The People would remember this gift for many years. It was very important that all those invited bring only themselves and no part of anyone else. Eagle reminded Hummingbird of the ones who had to be there, and how they had to fast for three days. That way everyone was clean, inside and on the outside as well; you didn't want to be burping or farting while the Spirits were speaking. Hummingbird and the Spirits celebrated the night away in the Sweatlodge; she was so excited about the vision and of what was to come. Many beautiful songs were sung, and before she knew it another new day was beginning. As she opened the flap to the Sweatlodge, she saw the faint light in the eastern sky and felt such happiness that she thought her little heart was going to burst. 39 l Roxanne Lindley Her voice was raspy and her little wings were sore from drumming all night, so Hummingbird knew that she must rest. She immediately went to the tall poplar tree where her nest was, and fell asleep to the gentle rustling of the leaves. She awoke that evening to the sounds of the drums, and realized that the People were gathered around a fire. Badger had come into the village, and had announced that he had a new wife. Badger was proud as punch as he introduced Loon, everyone admired her beautiful iridescent black necklace. Many people believed that Loons held special medicine, and many believed that it took a strong person to deal with Loon magic. As everyone watched the two, many wondered if Badger would have the endurance to handle Loon; it wasn't long before Magpie got a betting pool going. As she watched, Hummingbird smiled and knew this was the perfect time to talk of the beautiful things she had witnessed, and share the words of Eagle Spirit. Hummingbird flew down to the fire, and performed a special dance in the air for the new couple. Many loved to watch her dance, she looked like a jewel as light from the fire reflected off her colorful feathers. Hummingbird had captured everyone's attention and so, she began to speak of what was to come. Coyote sat there on the fir boughs, and yawned from boredom. Man, he thought, these two are crazy. Whoever heard of a four legged and a water bird together, he knew that it would never last. Coyote figured that they would last a few months at the most, and would let Magpie know of his bet. Groundhog sat beside Coyote, and elbowed him; Groundhog had a very gentle soul and didn't like to have negative thoughts in his aura. Groundhog told him that he should listen to what Hummingbird was saying, and that he should be excited about the gift. Coyote was on a roll, and as he looked down he was quick to remind the chubby little critter of how Groundhogs made the best sounding drum. Well, Groundhog let out one of his little squeals and quickly waddled away from where Coyote was sitting. Hummingbird continued to speak, even though Coyote was being very rude; for she knew that she played a huge role in the new gift that was to be received. She knew that this was going to be a time for many tests; she knew this because everyone around the fire was being a 40 Roxanne Lindley I I I I l bonehead. She knew that they often chased illusions, but she believed in her heart that the Creator would look after things. For many days and nights Hummingbird was diligent in reminding the others of the preparation that had to be done. Everything from the purification ceremonies, the fasts, the special hunt, the offerings and the entire celebration afterwards needed to be planned. The energy and excitement soon began to spread throughout the village; some today would say it spread like an Epidemic. Only this time it was something good. The time had finally arrived. Soon things were going to change, no one knew in what way; they just knew something special was going to happen. The Sweatlodge had been built that morning, and everyone could smell the sweet combined aromas of red willow, fir, cedar and sage. Kilawna, Sasquatch, the Rainbow Trout, Chipmunk, Meadowlark and the Stick People were finishing the last of their chokecherry medicine. They had come to accept the responsibility that they, along with Hummingbird would enter the Sweatlodge. Everyone knew that they were to wait until the ceremony was over and the flap opened. Sometimes people don't listen, sometimes people have lots of things on their minds, and sometimes they just can't help it. Badger was all of that and more; before he and Loon arrived she had done her beautiful dance upon the water. Badger's heart was still aflutter; for it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Badger wanted to always remember that day, so he plucked a small feather from Loon's necklace and placed it inside his medicine pouch. Just thinking of her feather in his pouch, so close to his heart, gave Badger lots of nice warm fuzzy thoughts. He wished that he could spin on top of the water, and he wished that he could have a clear distinct voice; if he could do these things he would do them for Loon. Badger was definitely in la-la land, and he didn't even realize it as he waddled into the special Sweatlodge. All he could think of was that dance and all he could do is smile as he entered the cool dark area. Some say Badger thought it was his den; others say his head was in the clouds, but most knew Loon medicine when they seen it. Kilawna, the Rainbow Trout, Chipmunk, Meadowlark, Hummingbird and the Stick People crawled into the Sweatlodge; Sasquatch went in last, it was his job to sit by the door. No one noticed Badger's furry warm little body, and Sasquatch closed the flap. 41 Roxanne Lindley Roxanne Lindley Everyone knew that the flap would not open between rounds and they knew they were in for a long stretch. There were many songs, and everyone felt Eagle Spirit when he entered the Sweatlodge. Eagle Spirit instructed everyone present to join hands. Badger finally realized what was happening, and he knew that if he said anything he would be in big trouble. He knew that he would be really embarrassed if the ceremony stopped because of him. So he did the only thing that he could do, and he joined hands with Chipmunk and Kilawna. Hummingbird was instructed to fly above everyone's heads while Eagle Spirit sang his song; she was to fly the whole time he sang. As everyone held hands, Hummingbird flew above their heads; all she could see were beautiful bright lights. It wasn't long before the lights became beautiful rainbow coloured streaks; Eagle was bringing everyone's energies together. Badger was truly amazed by what was happening, all he could feel was an incredible feeling from the tips of his ears to his sharp claws on his little feet. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered Loon and the feather he carried around his neck. Instinctively, he knew that Loon was part of this beautiful experience and he knew that they had become part of one another. This connection would last forever and ever and ever; as long as the grass continued to grow. Finally the flap was opened, and everyone outside waited in anticipation to see what special gift was coming to the People. Kilawna, the Rainbow Trout, Chipmunk, Meadowlark, Hummingbird, the Stick People and Sasquatch crawled out of the Sweatlodge. When Badger waddled out, everyone gasped. Many were shocked, and Badger thought they were surprised to see him. Many had puzzled looks on their faces. Badger heard a noise behind him, and as he looked over his shoulder he wondered what the heck came out behind him. This thing behind him was unlike anything he had ever seen. He realized that the People weren't looking at him, but at this thing that walked behind him. This thing walked on two feet, like Kilawna but had hair only on its head. Everyone could feel its powerful aura. What the heck was it? Hummingbird realized it was time to explain what the special gift was. Everyone was in awe, so it was easy to get everyone's attention. Hummingbird began telling the People that the Eagle Spirit brought a gift from the Creator, and this gift would be here to remind us of the importance of being human towards one another. This gift would be a fierce protector like Kilawna, and yet would be able to carry the beautiful songs of Meadowlark and Loon. This gift would have silvery hair like Sasquatch, this was to remind the People to honour and respect the gift; for this meant knowledge and wisdom. This gift would be able to communicate with the Water Spirits, rnuch like the Rainbow Trout; this was very important as water is necessary for survival. This gift would always carry the burden of the past, the present and the future; just like the Stick People. The roots would be deep within Mother Earth, and this gift would always remind the People of their responsibility in protecting all sacred beings on Mother Earth. This gift would have the capability of Hummingbird; and would be able to travel to many different realms and would share many wonderful things with the People. This gift would have the diligence of Badger, as well as carry the deep love that Badger felt for his true love; nothing can ever stand in the way of love. Everyone was in seventh heaven over the idea of having such as beautiful gift bestowed upon the People. There was only one question, what was this gift to be called, what will it be known as. Sasquatch stepped forwards and told the People that the Creator said the gift was to be known as Elder. This Elder would bring medicine and beautiful things to the People, just like the Elderberry bush does. This Elder would branch out in many directions, just like the Elderberry does and its branches would be strong enough to hold many things. This Elder would bring beautiful music through its branches, flutes would be made and the finest sounds would be created. This Elder would always gather, and teach the importance of gathering. And finally, this Elder carried the knowledge of the People and all of Coyote's qualities. Remember that when you are in an Elder's presence. 42 43 1I Richard O'Halloran Believe Robert Vincent Harris Awakenings I When you wake up Take your first real breath Open your eyes and see a new day For you are not alone Even if there is nobody around You are not alone Here those voices in your head But don't always listen to what they say They are only there to guide you To offer assistance And maybe some advice If it's good advice is completely up to you Hear what they say But don't always listen Are they real? Are you real? What is real? Real is what you believe No matter what that is Do others form what's real? Only if they believe To believe in something is comfort To believe in something is true To believe in tomorrow is hoping To believe in what's real Is you! 44 I I Rose Hips scatter about, blessing, Flattened dried seed pods, dangling, Flung to the wind as little people play, Crickets sing the dance and sway to the sun, Copulating to the dance Of the sleeping, bushes, Pulsing in the wind, Contractions, days apart, As the midwives sit high in the trees, The drops, of cleansing tears. 45 , Brent Peacock-Cohen Okanagan Translations: Nstils Think Stm'us Fish trap Mipnumt Forecaster of future Snk'lip Coyote The Reason Why We Do and The Reason Why We Don't Indian people... we remember. Our stories are our collective memories. The stories explain why we are and why we don't. Long before they came, with their western culture and technology. Long before they came, with their western culture and technology, when the land was ours, we lived in a spiritual partnership with land and animals. For the animals are our brothers and sisters, they showed us the way. Animals have been here longer than we have. We respect their wisdom of the land and the resources it provides. We learned the circle of life from them. For every birth, there is death. For every death, there is birth. Something the western technology, science, economics and spirituality does not respect. This is a story about why we don't. Our ancestors tell us of a man. His name was Nstils. He was an innovative thinker. The people were unsure of him but he did seem to improve some things so they listened to him. Nstils could speak to the animal world. My ancestors say he could talk to the wind, the trees and the mountains. People saw him talking to a brook. The brook told him where to fish. When my people went to fish at that spot, my people ate. However, Nstils never helped the people give back to the fish. Nstils just moved forward. Nstils was always experimenting with things. Nstils was always trying to build a better Stm 'us. An old Elder named Mipnumt warned the people that Nstils might go too far. He is too ambitious and he does not think of the consequences of his actions, he said but people did not listen. One day Nstils showed the men in the village a new way to fish. Traditionally my people would fish with dip nets and spears. Nstils showed the men, how to dam the creek with logs and rocks. He told the men a beaver told him how to do it. They built the dam higher than 46 I I I I I I I I I l Brent Peacock-Cohen the water. The dam was different from the dam of the beaver. The one that the men built had a channel in the middle to let the water through. The salmon came. The salmon had to go through the channel to get to the end of their journey. Nstils showed the men how to build bigger dip nets. The bigger dip nets allowed the men to catch more fish. The men of the village fished. They fished and they fished. The men fished all day and all night. Our ancestors tell stories of the size of the pile of fish by the creek. The hill was so high. The men fished and the women prepared the fish to preserve. The women could not keep up. The fish came too fast. The women fell behind. The men kept fishing because they had not seen that the women fell behind. The next day when the sun came up, the hot summer heat started to dry the fish. The fish were not prepared so they spoiled. The men still did not see the women could not keep up. The men kept fishing. There was never a time before when the women could not keep up. The men, when they fished with the smaller dip nets or spears; they could only catch as fast as the women could work. Nevertheless, the fish came too fast. The women could not keep up. Mipnumt, tired from fishing all night sat on a rock by the creek. He saw the women were not keeping up. He saw the fish drying out on the banks of the creek. He jumped up and yelled, "Stop fishing! Stop fishing!" The men had already stopped fishing. They had stopped fishing because there was no more salmon. There was not a salmon in the creek. The men searched the creek. They found no salmon. The salmon were gone. The salmon were gone forever. The men saw the hill of dried out salmon. The men rushed to help the women. The men were too late. The salmon just dried out and rotted by the creek. The men and women just sat down and looked at the hill of dried and rotten salmon. Snk'lip came out of the woods. Snk'lip sat by the creek. Snk'lip he looked at the hill of dried and rotten salmon. Snk'lip laughed, he laughed at my people. That is not the way it is supposed to be. But Snk'lip laughed and laughed. When Snk'lip was done laughing he turned that hill of dried and rotten salmon into a rock. A rock, that is still in the narrows of the creek. The rock will be there, forever. The rock reminds my people of the time they forgot about the respect for the salmon. 47 Brent Peacock-Cohen Gordon de Frane Sometimes in the summer, my people can hear Snk'lip laughing at them from the hills. His laughter reminds my people, why there are no salmon in the creek. That Nstils invented many things but my people thought about his inventions in the Sweatlodge before we accepted them. We didn't need his motorized wheels, his experimental potions or his TV. We do things the ways we do things so things are there to do. Not because we can do them better for a short time. 48 Indian Summer Each year my family watches the Moon's journey through the heavens, arriving at mid point on the celestial equator marks the official beginning of summer. For my family and especially for Ten' (mum) and me, the beginning of summer means it's berry-picking season. The white plastic ice cream pails would always be assembled and washed and carefully dried and ready to receive their bounty of berries. In the old days, baskets made from spruce and cedar roots and cedar bark would have been common. I recall that berries are also called stoomb - sometimes it means the meal that finishes a meal. Since my earliest memories our family would be gathered and make ready for picking berries each summer. The prized berries were the big tame ones, the Himalayan Blackberries; they make the best tasting jam with the memory of summer locked away in jars for later pleasure, reliving the warm sun filled days during the cold winter moons. Pure cakes of dried berries were served to highborn during feasts and important celebrations. The common or lowborn people in our communities made do with mixed cakes of dried berries. We picked wild blackberries, strawberries and salmonberries. As children, we picked thimble and salmonberry shoots too. Once peeled we would dip the shoots in sugar and eat them fresh; Ten' would peel and steam them as the first wild vegetable of the season. Other berries picked included soap berries, which until recently, we got only rarely from Elders or friends who shared some of their precious cache of these mouth puckering, yet delicious berries. Of all the berries, they are probably the most sought after. When whipped, sweetened with sugar and mixed with a little cold water, you get the most impossible looking Indian confection I know of, like eating whipped salmon coloured clouds. I remember the first time I ate some; they are funny tasting, almost soapy, I guess that's why they were called soap berries, sour-tasting mouth pursing experience. I fondly recall my first time eating soap berries; it happened when we were staying over with Elders on Penelakut-Kuper Island. They were Auntie Rose and Uncle Roger Peters; back then, they were already Elders, it seemed to me when I was young; back then they seemed ancient. Now auntie, who survives her husband Roger, seems 49 1I Gordon de Frane even more ancient and even wiser than those many years ago. Well, Everett, my brother, and me were staying over the weekend with Auntie Rose and Uncle Roger and our cousin, their granddaughter Sheila. It must have been June or early July; I remember waking on that Saturday morning to the smell of coffee brewing and eggs and bacon frying. Auntie Rose greeted us and roused us from the dreams that children dream. The house was slightly damp and the air smelled of wood smoke as well as the ocean, which was only a few steps away down the hill. The old the :wtxw (Longhouse) was then just down the hill. Uncle Roger was waiting for us at the table while Everett and I washed and got dressed. They had an outhouse back then and so washing was done in the kitchen. When we'd finished we joined him at the table. Sheila was making toast. Auntie Rose went about serving breakfast, pouring coffee for uncle and juice for us. The house had that warm, smoky, pine smell to it that you get from burning fir and hemlock wood for heat. The house was a typical standard Government Issue: level floor, thin walls without benefit of insulation, square, box situated on a plot of land. The front room was filled with furniture of all sorts. It was furnished with two old chesterfields that bravely stood the test of time with two armchairs, in need of new filling and coverings, and the ubiquitous day bed you find in many Indian households. There were three tables, one in the kitchen area, another one with a lean to it next to the wood stove, and a smaller one with candles and bells in the comer. In the center of this table stood a statue of the Virgin; she was smiling down at a collection of burnt matches, saucers with half burnt white candles melted to their centers and various little notions around. On the wall above the stove hung a crooked crucifix and the windows were draped with blankets and sheets knotted in that typical shabby chic of Indian interior design. The dusty, bare, wood floor was salted about with various bits and pieces of human detritus. A basket in the corner spilled over with wool and knitting needles and partly finished knitted pieces of what would become an Indian knit sweater. Auntie Rose was a dedicated knitter, her sweaters were much sought after by buyers and traders everywhere. We took our places at the table and waited while Uncle Roger said grace. He always said grace in Indian. Prayers, Indian prayers always, sound so much more real in our language than in the language of 50 I I I I ! I I I Gordon de Frane xunitum - the hungry people. Inside of the house it seemed as though the spirit worlds intersected with this world and that of the other newer beliefs brought here last century. There was little telling the two apart. Auntie and Uncle also believed in the old ways just as much as the new prayers that they said. Prayer and belief was important. And like so many of our people an ease of movement between the traditions and beliefs was normal and customary, even expected. I remember reading once in a sociology text that the People of the Land easily took up the beliefs of the new people. The theory suggested that being spiritually oriented people, we found it easy to embrace other beliefs while maintaining our own community identities, traditions, customs and teachings. I like to think of this as being testament to our ability to adapt and survive no matter what the Hungry People do to us. Auntie and Uncle were both members of the winter moons dancing traditions of the :wtxw. They often wore regalia that my Ten' had made for both of them. I remember the care and attention Ten' took when she made dance regalia for Rose and Roger. Ten' cut the designs from real black velvet and covered it in embroidered roses, sequins and tassels and ribbons. Roger's shirt was adorned with paddles and buttons. They were beautiful and I got to see Auntie Rose wear hers once as she danced her way around the fires one winter night long ago in the Longhouse. That night that Auntie wore the regalia made by Ten', sent a message to many of those assembled. Afterward, Ten' could hardly keep up with the orders for other shirts and other types of regalia. Dancers from everywhere came to our house looking to see if Ten' could make a dance shirt for them. Today, I sometimes wonder what happened to those several shirts, aprons and so forth that had been commissioned and made. Do they still make their way round the fires during the winter season, or have they been consigned to the memorial fires when their wearers became ancestors? Thinking back to those times spent on Penelakut, I remember Auntie Rose being a good cook; the food was simple but always delicious. The seasonings were salt and pepper only; any other seasonings would have been considered unnecessary, even un-Indian. Mostly the food back then was wild. Wild food had not become chic, but was a staple on the table and in the cupboard and in the smokehouse. There was always plenty of smoked fish and deer meat 51 Gordon de Frane to take the place of beef, pork and chicken. It was in the early eighties that beef, pork and chicken took the place of smoked fish and deer meat on our own tables at home. Now we eat like they do: in fine restaurants when the occasional deer steak appears on the table or a "wild" salmon survives the gauntlet of pollution and contamination and zealous fishers. On that early summer morning, Auntie served out eggs and bacon, while Sheila brought hot buttered toast to the table. The word butter is synonymous with margarine. In my early years eating "buttered" bread of any sort wasn't done, to us, it was considered gross and cruel and unusual punishment to eat slabs of congealed fat spread on bread or toast. Later I would relish the memories of coming home after school to a kitchen warmed by the smell of fresh bread, berries being jammed and fry bread stacked and dripping with "butter" waiting for us to pounce on as a prelude to supper. We would eat it with gobs of jam skimmings that Ten' would leave for us just for that reason. Of course, while eating "butter" was a taboo, not eating "grease" with our fish and in our soup was unthinkable. I still enjoy good grease drizzled over my fish and rice or flavouring the soup served with frybread. Back then Ten' was always jamming and canning or preserving and pickling something. It seemed we shopped for the few things we couldn't make back then. The jars of jams, jellies, pickles, preserves and fish as well as the slabs of smoked salmon, dried and smoked clams, the wrapped and frozen venison made up the bulk of our stores. The garden we planted provided us with fresh fruits and vegetables. The cattail flour and the bear fat soap which we got from back east once a year carried our family through the seasons of the moons. Everett and me ate our fill of breakfast and then helped Uncle split and chop fire wood. Auntie came out a little while later and planted the eyes of potatoes she had saved. I remember the joy it gave her to try this little experiment. She planted them despite Uncle's misgivings and belief that they wouldn't take. Still later she disappeared for a couple of hours while Everett and Sheila and me carried on with our chores under Uncle Roger's watchful eye. About noon Auntie reappeared carrying a small pail and a cedar stick she had cleverly carved into a paddle. She went inside and an hour later called us in to eat lunch. Lunch was fry bread, fish egg soup, one of my favourites next to black duck soup, and a bottom-up cake. 52 1l I I I I I I I I I I I I I I Gordon de Frane Indian kitchens always seemed to produce bottom-up cake. Bottom-up cake was made like most other cakes except that just before it went into the oven hot sugared water was poured over it and then baked. The batter would rise while the liquid would somehow magically tum into a sauce on which the cake floated; I loved it. I haven't had bottom-up cake in years. I still remember Auntie Rose's being one of the best I'd ever eaten, especially when she would add raisins or currants to the batter. When she was just about ready to serve the cake, she set about getting ready to make something else. She had retrieved the small pail and carved red cedar paddle from the kitchen. She was now carefully emptying the pail's contents into a squeaky-clean Pyrex glass bowl. The bowl has to be squeaky clean or it won't foam. Her movements were precise and seemed to embody the gathered wisdom of many life times. She then went and sat down on one of the old chesterfields and slowly and then vigorously began whipping the contents of the bowl. In Indian she asked Sheila to bring some water and more sugar. Sheila stood beside her and when she was told would add either water or sugar accordingly. It was like watching an alchemist at work, her assistant making gestures and additions as Rose spoke her directions; they made sure the potion being created would be just right. It was magic of a kind because after a few minutes the contents of the bowl started peaking from the edges as more volume was whipped in to it. To me, it was like salmon coloured cotton candy as its mass grew and grew beyond the rim of the bowl. Some more whipping and a couple of more additions from Sheila and then the wooden spatula rested. Auntie Rose looked up at Everett and me and smiled while holding out the cedar paddle for us to taste. I tasted it first and fell in love with it from that moment onward. Everett followed next and then Uncle Roger took an even greater portion. His face beamed like a child eating chocolate or toffee and he sat in the comer looking as if he was eating one of the rarest and finest delicacies to be had on earth; it was, of course. That was how we first ate Indian ice cream and I'm transported back to that day even now whenever I eat it. On a later visit, that summer, to Auntie and Uncle's home I made a discovery. In the garden planted beside the house and between the outhouse: masses of potato plants had flourished. Where only the eyes 53 ~ Gordon de Frane had been planted, with such faith and hope, great, green potato plants grew. An even later fall visit meant freshly dug potatoes accompanied our venison stew. In our family, blackberries made up the bulk of the berries we picked. We usually picked about a hundred pounds or more of them during a season. Everett and me had a system for picking berries. We made it into a game, which would get progressively different as we went along. We'd pick one for the pot and two for the belly. Then we'd pick two for the pot and three in our bellies and so forth. At the end of the day our lips would be dyed black-purple and our fingers would look like they had been dipped in purple henna. We would pick blackberries throughout the season. Ten' would always pray for sun rather than rain during berry picking time. Raspberries and other cultivated berries we usually bought from farms in Cedar or Yellow Point. Wild blackberries and wild strawberries were usually made into pies and frozen for later use in the year. Along with berries we'd pick plums and greengages and apples, crabapples too. I remember Khap-ah-lot's (Great Uncle Frank James) place had fruit trees growing all over his land and he always invited us to come and pick whenever and whatever was ready. He lived on the flats just south of Duncan. He had greengages, prune plums, golden plums and gravensteins growing on his land. He also had the best crabapples growing anywhere, which we blended with rose hips and made into a clear rose hued jelly. Besides just having us pick, I think he really liked having the company. Great Uncle Frank would always invite us to join them for a meal when we had finished picking for the day. When picking was done and everything packed and ready to go, they'd usher us in for tea and bannock or dinner depending on the time of the day. Auntie made the best soup and fry bread as I recall. I used to love picking out the fish eyes and grossing out who ever my companions were by eating them with exaggerated delight, in front of them. We always had a xunitum friend or two along with us on such occasions. They were pretty easy to gross out. Nowadays, I'm lucky if I see a fish eye looking back at me in an aquarium. Well, with our buckets and pails and canners full of fruit we would head home. There the next part of our ritual would begin. Ten' would set about washing and scouring bottles, gathering lids and rings, 54 I I I I I Gordon de Frane measuring amounts of sugar and taking stalk of the Certo supplies. Ten'' s craft of blending the perfect quantities of fruit with pectin, sugar, and juice was just like working magic. The results were more than magical when you consider that opening a jar of jam during the dead of winter was like opening a bottle of summer sunshine. The berries or whatever fruit had been picked would be carefully washed and culled for any bits and pieces that weren't good and then measured carefully and placed into the jam kettle. Ten' always used old and ancient recipes that had been handed down to her from Auntie Agnes or other Elders who shared favoured recipes with her. Those recipes always seemed to produce the best jams, jellies, pickles and preserves. They were real then; they always produced an honest flavour and made for delicious spreads and such. Ten' would fire up the gas stove and the first batch of blackberry jam would be under way. In no time the whole house would smell sweetly of blackberries, sugar and lemon. Auntie Agnes always said the lemon zest made a good jam into a perfect jam. The counters would be lined up with hot clean jars ready and waiting to receive their black gold liquid. Back then Ten' used hot paraffin to seal the hot jam into the jars. And the jars were not uniform but a collection of various jars saved during the previous year's use of store bought relishes and sandwich spreads, scrubbed and sterilized ready to use again. Looking back at our practices it seems we were less paranoid about food-born illnesses, either that or our methods were just very good. Today, I'm afraid, paraffin and odd bottles and jars have given way to uniform pint jars and a ten minute water bath processing to seal the jams in. During berry season, which seemed to never really end, the bottles of jam and preserves would gradually grow in number and variety as one berry came into its prime while another faded. Our cupboards soon filled with rows of jars glistening with black-purple, bright raspberry red, the old rose of strawberry, golden plum, limey green of the gages, clear rose of rose hip and quince or rose hip and crabapple, chartreuse of mint jelly. A host of other preserves were set by for the long winter moons that lay ahead. Today, Ten' and me continue the traditions of berry picking and jamming, jellying and preserving. We continue using the same time honoured recipes and while the paraffin and odd bottles have been abandoned, the gifts of the land are still treasured and valued for their sweetness and deliciousness and wholesome goodness. More recently 55 Gordon de Frane a few precious bushes of soap berries and their gifts have been added to our bounty preserved and saved for eating during the cold moons to come. We stumbled on the berries quite by accident. I learned some time ago that there's no coincidence. Finding the berries was in the context of acquiring other medicine. I've also learned that teachings don't happen in isolation. During the last several years walking my path has led me to learning about and becoming what I was chosen to be. My journey takes me between the worlds and becoming medicine is the path set before me. Understanding this and feeling that one day it'd be time to prepare, I started praying for the medicine born of eagles. To that end, I had placed a request through proper channels for eagle parts, feathers and such from the Ministry of Lands, Environment and Parks people. At the time of my request, I had been told that my inquiry would be recorded and entered into the computer database. I was further told that it would probably be about ten years or so before my name would get to the top of the list. Well, I had figured that'd be okay, since I probably wouldn't be ready for such gifts until then. But, I suppose the ancestors believed otherwise because within two years since placing the original request, I received a call from a staff member at the Ministry indicating that they had eagle parts available for me. He had also said that I could pick them up as soon as possible: space, freezer space wasn't a high priority with the ministry. So, Ten' and me made our way to the ministry offices, located North of Nanaimo across from a park, where my prized eagle parts waited collection. We stopped and parked along side a forested area. As I got out of the car, I surveyed the bushes and trees and observed a particular bush sporting tiny red berries clinging in bunches along it branches. I'm always searching forests, beaches and other areas for medicines or just things of interest the ancestors bring to my attention. I've acquired many gifts in this way over the years. So, puzzled and curious, I asked Ten' her opinion of what I was looking at; she investigated and by the tone of excitement in her voice I discerned that we'd made a fairly important discovery. She approached the bushes and carefully picked a couple of the berries, promptly popping one or two into her mouth. Well, she puckered and winced so fiercely that for just a moment as I thought to myself that 56 r Gordon de Frane perhaps witches could actually look like they do in the books I've seen over the years. When Ten''s face returned to its usual human form, she smiled broadly and said rather excitedly that that was them. We'd discovered soap berries and where were the pails? For an instant I thought we'd found gold, maybe we had. Ten' had been taught by her dad, my silu (grandfather) at childhood about the importance of soap berries and their uses and place in Salish custom and practice. Those lessons had taken place long before Grandpa went to be with Grandma, and now she was passing that wisdom on to me. Ten' had always told me that she wanted to teach me about soap berries before she went to be with her Ten' and dad. I recalled thinking that maybe she was telling me something else besides just what to look for and how to use the berries and root barks and other parts of the soap berry bush. Elders, I remembered, often knew or felt when it was their time and maybe Ten' was telling me by not telling that she was preparing for another journey. I'm glad to say that the discovery of soap berries on that day in July were just that, a teaching about soap berries and not a hidden message to prepare to cut my hair in the next couple of months. Soap berries, aside from making a unique Indian confection, are also used to cure ulcers and some cancers. Silu Silvey had taught Ten' how to dig the roots and prepare them for making a tea with them, and to drink it to cure ulcers and cleanse the blood of cancer. I remember being told once that at the Craigflower School and Farm they used soap berries as a mouthwash and encouraged their visitors to rinse and swish before spitting out the juice. I thought to myself how very stupid the xunitum were at times. What with their limited vision of using Aboriginal medicines how could they not recognize the gifts they'd been given? Since learning about what soap berries look like and the habitat that they enjoy most for growing, I intuitively began searching for more of them. Our search has taken us across much of Vancouver Island and areas that we would not ordinarily see if it were not for looking for soap berries and their promises of well-being and good health. We know that they grow along the highway on the Malahat; but climbing up the cliffs, not including crossing that ribbon of death, is most daunting and we have yet to gather sufficient courage to pick them in those areas. On the other hand, closer to the Land of the Fierce People 57 Gordon de Frane (Nanaimo) we discovered a wealth of bushes that proved far more accessible than those requiring climbing equipment and paid up life insurance policies. This most recent summer Ten' and me picked about three gallons of soap berries and harvested enough roots to make tea for a number of our ailing friends and family. For two weeks at the beginning of June we rose early, breakfasted, donned our hats, grabbed our pails and drove to the newly found soap berry groves. During our time among the berries, I listened to Ten' tell stories or we spoke to the occasional passerby who happened along. I continue to add to my wealth and store of stories and family histories in this way. And Ten' 's style of storytelling requires that I listen carefully and make no interruptions. She has taught me how to listen to the call of the "Visitor bird" and to count its particular trills that tell how many visitors we would receive later that day, or later in the week. I've now learned to get ready with tea and bannock when I hear the "Visitor bird" call. The incidental passerby always expressed interest in knowing what it was we were picking; and ever so reluctantly I'd share with them the nature of soap berries and their importance to us. I'm still haunted by these revelations and wonder when I'll see soap berries mass marketed and sold like any other commodity on the shelves of health food stores and specialty markets on the Island. Maybe next time I'll just pretend I speak only hul'qumi 'num' or hide until they pass. Each summer Ten' and me wander the Island in search of medicines and berries and just to be with the land as the sun warms it. With each day growing longer our journeys stretched further afield. We've picked salal berries along the way to Alert Bay, wild celery in Saanich and Parksville and Qualicum Bay. Indian Pipe can be found during late July and August. This past summer the red huckleberries were so full, just south of Ladysmith, that they bent low to the ground burdened under their own weight. And the late autumn has given us evergreen huckleberries, available in Sooke, until the first heavy frosts of winter. I discovered saskatoon berry plants while visiting a garden centre and made the immediate connection between what I saw there and the bushes that grow not more than a block or so from where Ten' lives. We're still figuring out how we can transplant a wild goose berry back 58 r I I I i I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I Gordon de Frane to her garden before it's buried under highway construction. We anxiously wait to know the fate of our wild celery patch that was burned out as a result of teenagers using it as partying place. I say that we'll be able to see more of it as it emerges from the land next spring; Ten"s not so certain though. Ten' doesn't understand how they can be so disrespectful of the land and the gifts it gives us so willingly and so abundantly. Next summer we're planning to travel to the "Elder's Gathering" in Chilliwack and along the way look for sweetgrass and sage deeper in the interior. Perhaps we'll also discover along the way family and friends we've not known before; and more summertime memories will be forged and created and reside in my thoughts waiting for transformation to ink and paper, waiting to be retold as stories. There are many phases of the moon to come as we survey the future. Each season holds the promise of harvesting and gathering the foods that will be put by for the winter. And each will contain memories that will be put by for later retelling and sharing with my five daughters - nieces according to the xunitum understanding of family. They will become winter moon teachings that my Ten', their Sisilu (grandma) has shared with me. It's during the winter months that the efforts of berry picking season are best appreciated and the traditions and customs of a family are reaffirmed for another year. When the rewards of our efforts are eaten it's done so with thoughts of summer and with thanksgiving. When each jar of fresh jam or jelly is opened, when a bottle of golden peaches is shared for dessert, we are blessed with memories of our Indian Summer. I I __l____ 59 John Garfield Barlow John Garfield Barlow The Gift One day, Falling Feather, a young Mi'kmaq man was walking along the shore. Clam holes were spitting, and noisy birds feasted on minnows stranded by the low tide in shallow pools. As he rounded a point on his island home, he saw a man in the distance standing upon a large rock. He followed the beach towards this man wondering who he was and why he stood upon the rock. Nearing, he noticed the man was very old and cradled something gently in his arms, a bundle that resembled a small child. As Falling Feather approached he called out to him, "What do you say old man?" "I say the day slips away and the river will soon return," the old man answered, never turning to look at Falling Feather. He looked intently into a shallow pool that circled his rock. "I am waiting for a man." . Crossing his arms Falling Feather replied, "Which man do you wait for, perhaps I have seen him during my walk." "I do not know, but I was told he will come." The old man raised the bundle he held in his arms, "I must keep this for him. He is on a long journey and will need these things." The old man turned and asked, "Why are you here?" "I am walking." said Falling Feather, "That is all." "Where do you go?" asked the old man. "My journey has no destination," replied Falling Feather, "I am only walking." "Perhaps your journey is the destination," said the old man absently, shaking his head at what he saw in the pool of water swelling around his rock. "Why have you come to this place?" "The sun was warm on my face so I walked towards it the wind ' Falling' sweet and light on my back, blew this way so I followed." Feather drew closer to see what the old man was looking at in the water. There was nothing in the shallow pool but the old man's reflection. Walking around the rock Falling Feather looked up to the old man. "Do you stand upon the rock to watch for this one who is coming?" "Already the water around this rock has risen," he replied, 60 pointing to the shallow pool. "Soon darkness will fall and the river will return. I am old and tired. I must stand on this rock or the river will carry me away. I must be here for he who comes, it is important that he receive what I hold. He will need these things for his journey." Curiosity was strong in Falling Feather and he had to ask, "What do you hold there old man, may I see?" The old man unwrapped his precious bundle and revealed his treasure; sticks, stones, shells, bones, grasses, roots and feathers. "It is important that he have these," he said, looking into Falling Feather's eyes. "But these are just things, old man. Why do you carry no food or weapons for this man to take on his journey? Why give him things that are of no use?" Falling Feather shook his head and turned away. "You will weigh him down with nonsense." "There is much you fail to see," the old man turned to look at Falling Feather, "these are more than just things." He held out his bundle to Falling Feather. "Take the white stone. Can you not see?" Falling Feather took the stone, tossing it in the air and catching it. "It is a stone. Would you fill a man's pack who must journey far, with stones?" The old man took back the stone, rolling it in his hand. "This is more than a stone I hold in my hand. Look and see." The old man held the stone up to the light. Falling Feather eyed the stone, "A stone is just a stone, like all other stones." "You do not see the arrow head that is in the stone? With it a man can feed, clothe, and protect himself." The old man placed the stone back in the bundle binding it securely. "You must always try to see the truth that lies within all things. Things remain things until they reveal their truth to you." The old man turned back to the rising pool of water. "You carry symbols," replied Falling Feather, "they have no practical use." "They are symbols of truths. Everything has a truth that lies within, and in truth there lies power." The old man tied the bundle securely and turned to face the water. Falling Feather could see the water had risen and turned to the old man, "Come down old one, the sun slips away and the tides approach, I will help you home." 61 l·.•I 'I !. :, J i l ', :j John Garfield Barlow "I was told that a man will come and I must be here to pass on to him what he will need," said the old man as small waves splashed against the rock. "It is important - it is my purpose." "The moon is strong, the tide will be high," said Falling Feather, stepping up to join the old man on the rock, "You will serve no purpose if you are swept away by the river." "The river, like time, carries away all things." replied the old man, "I will be no different. If I am not here when he comes, he will not receive these gifts and they will be lost. I must stay no matter the cost." The old man would not be moved. "The sun is nearly down, if this man does not come before dark, we will leave," said Falling Feather. "We can return in the morning and I will wait with you then, but you must come home with me." The old man did not move. "The water rises, I cannot leave you here alone." The old man was silent as the sun slipped away and the water rose, covering the stone. "Very well, I'll stay with you, but only to keep you from being washed away in the night," said Falling Feather. He put his arm around the old man's shoulder, "We wait together." The rising water was cold and dark and the night was long and silent. The men took turns holding the bundle above their heads as they stood on the rock. Soon it was too deep for the old man to stand and Falling Feather had to carry him and the bundle. Both grew tired, and deep in the night the old man began to drift away. Falling Feather could not save both and when he tried to save the old man, the bundle was nearly lost. The old man scolded Falling Feather, "I am old, it is my time young one. These gifts must be protected and passed on to he who comes, It is up to you now, if you fail all will be lost." Falling Feather tried to argue but the old man swam away. Falling Feather bowed his head as the old man disappeared. The night was very long, it seemed that it might never end, but light returned and the river retreated. Falling Feather grieved the loss of the old man. As he studied the bundle he knew he would wait for this man who was coming so the bundle would be passed on. Falling Feather was grateful for the warm sun which dried him and he closed his eyes to soak up its warmth. "What do you say, old man?" The questioning voice startled Falling Feather. He turned to see a young man standing on the beach. "I am waiting for a man who is coming," replied Falling Feather. 62 T John Garfield Barlow Looking at the young man he asked, "Where do you come from?" "I come from a place up the river," replied the young man. "Where is it that you go?" asked Falling Feather. "I am walking, that is all," replied the young man. Falling Feather looked down into the shallow pool surrounding his rock and was startled by the reflection he saw there. He could only shake his head as he saw his face, the face of an old man looking back at him. "What is it that you carry?" asked the young man. "I am carrying what he who comes will need for his journey," replied Falling Feather, without looking at the young man. Troubled by his reflection in the water, he shook his head as he felt inside of him a truth struggling to be born. He turned to the boy, "Why have you come here?" He knew the young man's answer would prove for him the truth he felt inside. "The wind blew me this way," the young man said as he looked at Falling Feather on the rock. "What do you hold in your bundle?" Falling Feather looked at the young man as he felt the truth, and he held it tightly, but gently, to his chest. j 63 'f Marcelle Marie Gareau The Keeper of Tradition I Marcelle Marie Gareau I were ceremonies that had been quietly passed down for centuries that I could now honourably participate in. I could live and breathe the beauty of my ancestor's ways. I could walk in their reflected beauty. Through his example and keen understanding of the world, Mouchem had been able to influence me by offering me what I had never possessed - dignity. Mouchem was a very tall and unassuming person who didn't take up much space in a room, but you could feel his presence because he radiated warmth and happiness. Mouchem took great joy in life and many felt that joy. When I would go to the rez, he would shake my hand and smile at me in such delight that I could feel my insides start to bubble with happiness. He would say to me "If you stay here for a week, I will come and see you every day," and he would. During this time, I would feel an incredible happiness come into me. It was the first time that I had ever felt that someone was actually glad to see me, not for what I could do for them but simply because I was there. It was my first encounter with acceptance for who I was. It also began to give me the idea that perhaps our Creator, Kize Manitoun, hadn't made a complete mistake when I was born. Over the few years that I knew Mouchem he continued to accept me for who I was. With Mouchem I never felt that I was too white too ' dark, too fat, too skinny, too stupid, too smart, too lazy, too busy. I never had the feeling that I had to change in order to be accepted by him. But I wanted to change. I wanted to become more like him. I wanted to walk in his footsteps. And Mouchem accepted and respected this in me and helped me to heal through traditional ways. When Mouchem left this world to go to the next, he continued to care for me. One of the gifts he gave me was comfort after his death. When Mouchem's nephew called to tell me he had gone, I felt myself shut down and then I began to weep. Remembering some of the teachings, I said out loud to Mouchem "I'm not trying to keep you here in this world Mouchem. I'm crying for me. I know you've gone to a better place. I'm crying because I'm going to miss you so much." Seconds after I spoke out loud to Mouchem's memory, my tears stopped. I was no longer cold. I felt as if a quilt had been wrapped around me and I was no longer in pain. I began to feel the same happiness I used to feel when I was near Mouchem. Even on his journey into the next world, he had not left me. Some would say that this was a state of shock or a manifestation of my imagination, but I know that I I I am writing this to honour the memory of an Elder who made such an impact on my life that in many ways I became a completely different person. I first met Mouchem, through his granddaughter and my best friend, Linda. Linda was doing her university graduate work on Native education and Mouchem was helping her. He had asked her to take one of his "talks" back to the university. When I met Mouchem, he was eighty-two years old and a well-respected member of the community he belonged to. Back then I was a person that couldn't feel all that much except for anger and pain. I had come from a family that had been tom apart through alcoholism, violence, abuse and social services. I had no idea of what love was. I had no idea of what acceptance was. All I knew about life was violence, rape, anger, disrespect, and hatred. I saw no value in my life. I wanted death. I wanted the ride to stop. The first thing that I did because of Mouchem's influence was to stop the self-destructive behaviour of drinking alcohol. Linda and I were talking one day and she told me how "the old man" had spoken about poverty and how he referred to poverty in the spiritual sense, not the material sense. What Mouchem had to say about spiritual poverty and about alcohol was that for Indian people and because of our history " ... there is no dignity in drinking socially or otherwise." When I heard these words, they went through me and shook my spirit and my mind in a way that made it seem like a rumble of understanding went through my body. When I thought about sobriety in this way, it became a political statement about who I was and who I was not. It allowed me to reflect upon my ancestors and I felt that by not consuming alcohol I was honouring them. It was a way to show respect for their lives, their traditions and the suffering they had undergone. Not drinking connected me to them and my history of who I was, on this land. I was no longer "this thing" that the colonizing forces said I was. I began to understand myself and my role as a Native woman in an occupied country. In sobriety I also came to understand that although I continued to be materially poor I could be spiritually and emotionally rich. There 64 .l 65 Marcelle Marie Gareau Eric Ostrowidzki just as Mouchem had shown me that there was a better life here on earth, he showed me that there was a better life to come afterwards. Years later I still carry Mouchem in my heart and try to show people, especially young people, the joy that he used to show me. When I was new to it I would think about Mouchem and try to imitate him. I would think, "Now what would Mouchem have said? What would he have done?" Mouchem used to go to the schools to give "good talks" to the students and the teachers and later he would tell me, "I told those teachers to just love those children, just love them". So I would attempt to show people respect and kindness so they would feel loved. Slowly over the years, it started to become a part of me and now often when I show respect and acceptance to a young person like my niece. I also feel joy and delight in her presence. My heart no longer seems to give out the hollow sound of a rock being kicked up a gravel road. I am able to nurture her and talk to her about tradition and how it fits into our lives. I have Mouchem to thank for that. His message of love and tradition continues to affect me and others. Although I miss him, the thought of seeing Mouchem again, when my journey to the next world begins, fills my eyes with tears of expectation as I write this. I am no longer alone, because through him, I am with All My Relations. Marcee Mouchem, Marcee. 66 gubY Mossflower's Magic Quilt She lived alone at the edge of an abandoned field hastly with bloody carnations and translucent gellow onions which croaked and pulsated iike a legion of eyeless frogs. She lived alone because her husband, years before, had decided to become a pillar of unfeeling stone. So he walked to the rim of the blood-muddy, . croaking field and turned into a smooth black stone monolith which was silent as a fatal bullet-hole. To keep her busy, to keep from falling into the sullen torpor which overshadowed this anguished land, . Ruby Mossflower took to quilting in her grey clapboard cabm, piecing together quilts of Harlequin-checked patchwork - the parrot-coloured blankets of a woman's dreams, stitched with the multicolored braided strands of an unraveled rainbow to blot out the glowering beet-red, cast-iron sky. Ruby Mossflower lived alone. While the blue-clawed darkness scraped its way through the shell-thin grey shingles of the clapboards, Ruby Mossflower had begun a marvelous quilt, having a quilting bee with an endless procession of Ghostly Female Quilters which filed through her loneliness-haunted brain. She would pin such scraps of material together, patterned panels of cloth which all the gallows-birds of black glass would bring to her, squares of rags which a Wandering Ragman would hawk like the tattered pieces of ancient maps or like foreign newspapers from the Country of the Mad. And so her quilt became a motley tapestry, while the night bristled with jagged red stars and lean green wolves circled and bayed around her cabin. 67 Eric Ostrowidzki Eric Ostrowidzki The first Ghostly Quilter who Ruby Mossflower worked by candlelight came to her was an old Indian Woman who was more radiant than frothy washed linen immaculate in moonlight. Speaking with the rustle of cat-tails swaying along a riverbank in pink twilight, the Indian Woman sewed her part of the quilt, adding what could be known only by someone who could heal the sickness which spread itself across this land. She stitched into the cloth the liquid silver of moonbeams and the amber-gold flicker of a field of grain. She stitched into the quilt the prayers and hopes of generations. She stitched into the cloth the names of all her ancestors who came before her, causing the quilt to quiver with the milky green glow of fireflies. She quilted her part of the quilt; and, by dawn, the Indian woman was gone, vanishing like an alphabet of transparent dew writ upon a chalk-blue slate tablet in the morning sunlight. upon her magic quilt, gathering the fabulous dream blanket around her in shimmering voluminous folds and furls, which glistened like a livid satin fresco or neon graffiti winking across a flexible chrome wall. While she darned and smoothed the living fabric with her thick brown peasant-fingers, Ruby Mossflower saw another Ghostly Quilter appear. She was a Black woman. She wore a soiled orange-pink kerchief bound around her hair like a turban of sassafras. Her eyes were dark brown volcanoes of joy and rage. When she spoke, she spoke with the soul-deep music of blue-mahogany guitars and mockingbird-harmonicas in a purple velvet grotto beneath a surf of whiskey ... Alone again, Ruby Mossflower gazed upon the polychromatic sheen of the quilt, noting with quiet apprehension the fire-winged hawk flying across a vermilion horizon. She strummed the quilt and it twanged like a harp of blue wood smoke thrumming with the odors of jasmine and primrose. "Oh my!" Ruby Mossflower exclaimed, "Whatever has this Indian Woman done to my quilt? What has she added to the patchwork of my design?" Feeling faint with fear, Ruby Mossflower gazed out the window of her little silver-grey clapboard shack, and she was surprised to see that instead of the bare leafless tree fruited with stinking rotten brown memories in the backyard, there was a yellow-leaved oak tree which she had never seen before. "Why have I never noticed that oak tree before? What has my magic quilt made me see?" 68 And what did this Ghostly Quilter bring? What manner of patchwork mosaic did she leave behind? The Black woman had quilted into the rumpled tapestry the agony of childbirth and the ecstasy of breast feeding. She stitched into the bunched paneled cloth the abundance of love and joy and sorrow and death. Bright golden horned beasts streamed from two trumpet-mouth cornucopia of amber gum! When Miss Ruby Mossflower gazed outside of her window, she saw not the granite bluffs which bulged like the bald brows of stone giants, but a Garden of Breath-pale Gazelles grazing like a peaceful herd of pink clouds at dawn ... not the black night which always surrounds any child's death, but burgeoning yellow gourds fat with the humming sweetness of a woman's manifold, multiform life ... Astonished, Ruby Mossflower rubbed her needle-&-thread-tired eyes, wondering how it was possible for her magic quilt to re-embroider the land as if there was power to stitch and sew the good rich fabric of the earth. Where had the Indian Woman and Black woman come from? 69 Eric Ostrowidzki Eric Ostrowidzki And why did they paint the cloth stain glass with shapes and forms which she did not understand? Three nights later, the Ghostly Quilter of the Chinese Woman had come to add rectangles of silk to the quilt which flared into green rice paper fans which unfurled into carven jade birds which blossomed into emerald ceremonial daggers which exploded into Japanese parasols of green sparks, Burying her face in her hands, Ruby Mossflower explained, "No More! For you have ruined the design of my quilt!" She said, "No more - for I fear that I will see too much!" And many days and nights had passed and many Ghostly Quilters had come and gone. And with the passing of these Quilters, there were many changes to the land or how Ruby Mossflower saw the land. And with these changes, her grey clapboard shack had become a place of fabulous possibilities ... Next Ruby Mossflower saw the Mexican Woman enter the cabin one evening, saw the Ghostly Quilter arrive like a Brown-Skinned Goddess of Purple-Blue Maize. And when she left, she left behind her the quilt which smelled strongly of chili and dill and orange cheese and guava-juice and of the tortilla of poverty and the lime of life! Beyond the iron-grey wood-framed window, a snow-white coyote sang an aria which turned the stars into garlands of red peppers. whose scratchy creaking melody wrings your memory when you are old. Somebody baked a batch of walnut brownies upon which a mirthful Ruby Mossflower chipped her tooth, laughing. While the fabulous dream blanket grew to unknown dimensions, Ruby Mossflower - Lone Seamstress of One Thousand Lonely Nights - gradually realized that the Ghostly Quilters were not ghosts but real Quilters. And Ruby Mossflower also realized that she did not live in a shell-thin grey clapboard cabin but in a many-roomed lavender and cream-coloured house whose green shuttered windows were open to endless summer. Thunderstruck, Ruby Mossflower exclaimed: "How beloved are these enchantresses of the needle and the thread who have come to quilt my life into one thousand panels and squares which, like some Hieroglyphics of Witches and Sorceresses, bespeak of a community of women never seen, never told." And with these words, and with the brightly checked story of the magic quilt, a bedazzled Ruby Mossflower gazed out the window and saw not a pillar of black unfeeling stone, but a glassy azure column of sapphire; she saw not a field of onions and menstruating carnations but a field of honeycomb-yellow butterflies which bore the limpid column of frozen water away as if it were a tom remnant from the satin-blue sky ... Soon, soon Ruby Mossflower's tiny grey clapboard cabin became filled with Ghostly Quilters who chattered and laughed and drank tea and blackberry brandy, stitching the whole history of female friendship which no man with leaden eye could decipher. There was a woman from Ireland, there was a woman from India, there was a woman from Bolivia and Afghanistan and Iceland. And the quilt grew and the room grew too, and a gramophone began to play all the songs which you can never remember but 70 71 Dawna Elaine Page (Karonhiakwas) Dawna Elaine Page (Karonhiakwas) Familiar My daughter, my sister wove you into a dream fed your hunger cooled your anger. You didn't look back Brother Bear, when you swam into the stars. You came in the morning. Shadowed sun through oak leaves dappled your fur but did not conceal you Brother Wolf. I did not run I did not cry out though you opened your throat and swallowed the silence. My brothers, stay and teach me though the woods are empty and the lake is still. My father, my husband sought you without violence in the autumn trees but you came to me Brother Bear, your dripping teeth and steaming breath inches from my fear, and yet your dark silvered fur dazzled my eyes. I felt your spirit touch my skin and the scent of your lifeblood was warm. I saw you leave at twilight. Darkness stealing fire, the last flame to go burned in your eyes, unblinking Brother Wolf. I saw no tears. 72 j 73 Section 3 Knowledge r Helen-Anne Embry I The Knowledge I It's in the wind. It's in the pride and in the hearts of grandfathers, grandmothers. It's in the grandchildren. Pride and pain intertwined into our every being as we pass down stories of our history, Tears and blood secretly fall upon our young faces as we dance wildly in the night, Stories that will never more touch deaf ears, for we are now wise enough to listen. The wounds of mother earth, She shakes us from her leaves, her soil, her mountain tops and great wide plateaus, She knows not of rage, only how to heal herself. We still have the ancient stars to guide our way, The knowledge of our Elders and the sun to shine to stream upon our bodies of gold, And the glowing moon for us to obey. Hate can no longer be an excuse for what we have endured, Only great gatherings, celebrations of feasts and friends, But most of all, the hope for everlasting peace. John Berry Old Man Old man sits alone, With his memories, His body aches, His vision blurs. Old man once young, Once a warrior, A Father, A Grandfather. Old man sits and thinks, Of berry picking, and young love, He once knew, In days now gone. Old man sits alone, With his memories, Of dances, And distances. Old man once young, Was a builder, A husband, An Uncle. Old man sits and thinks, Of stories, That he knows, From days now gone. Old man sits alone, And remembers, Many things. Who will listen? 76 77 Naomi Walser Naomi Walser Ojibwe Translations: Boozhoo Shkakmi kwe K-chi mnido Nishnaabek Zhoonyaa Miigwech Original man Mother Earth The Creator Aboriginal people Money Thank-you f wealth ensures our survival; therefore, the more that is given away, (Nana' boozhoo) ( Gitchi Manitou) (The Colonized) A Day in the Life of an Elder "Boozhoo, Wauba nungo Kwe deznekaz Wabashoshi dodem Chimnising ndoonjaba." Hello my name is Morning Star. I come from Christian Island and belong to the Martin Clan. I am going to tell the story of how ~any moons ago our way of life was interrupted. I am told that this dark time came to us over fifty generations ago. Before then we lived very similar to the way we do now, except our Shkakmi Kwe looked very different. Our Shkakmi Kwe is beautiful today, but then, the waters were clear, the air was pure, and the earth seemed to go on forever. When our new found brothers arrived from across the water it is said that they thought they had discovered a New World. Sure - we may laugh at that thought today, but our First Nations were in grave danger for a very long time. Our relatives in all four directions were affected. Life became uncivilized. It seemed as though hatred was felt for our Shka~i Kwe. Destruction and despair were in store, masking her natural vigor. We tried to share ideas, but we were demanded to abide by t~ese ~eceiving ways, or places very similar to the "Legend of the Residential School" would be our new home. We were to be deprived of everything that we know today. Wh_en we ~onnect with the K-chi mnido ceremoniously, it is a celebration of life. These traditions are very dear to us, and we use them eve_ryday. T~ey a:e a part of everything we do in life, wedding ceremo~ies, punfi~at10n ceremonies, all the way to naming ceremomes. Our "give-aways" or "potlatches" are practiced to unite our people. The guests are family and friends who we care about, and the guest of honour is to give away gifts to all invited. Redistribution 78 ~he greater the prestige. Unfortunately, our perceptions were different between races. Our traditions and ceremonies were outlawed by those demanding power. They only had one way of thinking, and because of it we had to suffer. . This culture rape tore the heart out of our people. We were Just empty shells for many years. Our empty shells were misgui~e~, and introduced to a world full of lies and betrayal. One of the mam mgredients to this bribery was a form of firewater that seemed to help take all Nishnaabek troubles away. But this firewater was only a "cover up" disguising the problems that currently existed in our villages. Reality became worse, making it very easy for our people to be manipulated into believing our way as "wrong." Even though our honoring of Nana' boozoo, used everyday in our greetings, was comparable to their belief in "Christianity," they were allowed to believe, and we were not. Basically we were forced to follow, or have no care in the world. I am also told that the favourite obsession of the past was referred to as "money." Money was said to be a powerful trading device. We know it now as zhoon yaa, but these days the only use for zhoon yaa, is to start our fires. Other than that it is looked at the same as the rest of the leftovers from the Last World ... garbage. We were competitors in a game that we were unfamiliar with. We had to figure out the rules for ourselves, but in the end it will all be worth it. As history has proven, we can make a difference on generations to come. Thanks to the persistence of our Elders before us, we have the fortune to learn, and pass on our, once oppressed, way of life. As generations have passed, communication between races has become the most powerful tool. Now we can interweave ideas and exist unified and strong. We are working towards the land that we have only heard of, and when we have cleaned up the last of the colonial mess, we will see the true beauty of our Shkakmi Kwe. We are on the path towards decolonization. We started with accepting the Challenge to focus on the Restoration of our culture; developing Teamwork creates Leadership, producing Pride as the ultimate outcome. Everyone contributes; therefore, we are all equal. And that, my children, is why we need to take time to help cleanse and appreciate our Shkakmi Kwe everyday. Miigwetch, Waaba nungo Kwe 79 Steve Russell Steve Russell What Indians Want when you know the price of taking a deer without the deer's permission, "What do you want?" The Question comes with and without good will but it comes. then we can talk. "Acknowledgment of our history here!" says my Indian sister Ruth Soucy. "Denazification!" says my Indian brother Ward Churchill. These things and more, and they will cost you dear! More than giving the country back, much, much more. I think of the German civilians forced to file through the death camps at the point of American guns, how the civilians tried to tum away but our Gis grimly insisted and the German townspeople stood there and cried, more naked than the stacks of naked Jewish corpses, stripped of deniability. Once you stand there naked, stripped of innocence, bereft of "Indian depredations," without casinos or tax exemptions or smoke shops without myth or trivia, I when you stand there naked as my hunger, I 80 l 81 Vera Manuel Vera Manuel JUSTICE I am a product of Colonization in this continent of North America; A result of Cultural Oppression by Church and Government; A survivor of Forced Assimilation and Genocide. First Nations. Indigenous. Aboriginal person of this land. Yet, I do not speak the language of my ancestors, know little about the customs and traditions of my people, have never fasted up in the mountain, have no song or dance, no Indian name to define me, and for most of my life I could honestly say, I don't know who I am. When I look around my world, I see my people, in this land of riches, confined to small spaces; forced to fight everyday to protect traditional territory, living lives of poverty similar to Third Worlds, I feel my Rage stirring inside me. I feel robbed, A sense of Injustice. 82 When I look around my world 1 see the hearts and backs of my people breaking beneath burdens of unresolved grief, nightmarish memories of childhood trauma: Residential School; Day School; foster and Adoptive homes, generation to generation, physical, emotional, spiritual, sexual abuse and shame, I feel my Rage stirring inside me. When I allow my ears to listen to voices of other people of this land, who have no mercy, no love, nor compassion no understanding of its Unjust History, who come for freedom, opportunity, adventure, riches, who stand on the heads of my people, on the graves of my ancestors and carelessly say: "Why can't those Indian get it together? They live off our tax money you know. Welfare Bums! If only they'd try to help themselves." I feel my Rage stirring inside me, camouflage for powerlessness and shame, anesthesia for grief, a sense of Injustice. I feel unsafe in the white world, to speak my views out loud, to share my culture, uneasy, mistrustful, afraid those white people 83 j ,'i ! Vera Manuel Charlotte Mearns will speak the very words I speak, steal the ceremonies, the sacred circle, sacred stories, songs and dance, then use them to continue to oppress. Tell our stories from their white eyes and lie, sing our songs, do our dances, wear our names, copy our art and sell it. I get nervous when they write things down, so I tell them, you can't write it down. I fight hard inside myself to see the human beings that they are. I am a product of Colonization, the result of Cultural Oppression, a survivor of Genocide I carry the burden Of all the unresolved grief Of my ancestors in my heart, on my shoulders, in my gut. In this lifetime I have committed myself to fight for Justice. My brother tells me, "It is INJUSTICE that is our enemy, not white people. REMEMBER, we are fighting on the same side Dr. Martin Luther King, Ghandi, Mandela and Geronimo." We take responsibility for our Rage, We fight on the same side, for JUSTICE. 84 J(nowledge Keepers From the north bank of their traditional territory of Musqueam, this direct descendent of the First People of this Nation surveys the band of attentive little listeners convened before him. Nodding in the affirmative (and just busting with pride), he witnessed each of us striving to be seated the tallest on our choice of favorite logs. We all hoped Great Grandpa James would notice how nicely we "under tens" were maturing. These little listeners are his son's daughter's offspring and they too were direct descendent of these First People. He knew the impending lessons would reaffirm what their receptive little hearts already knew, and would carry forward as the foundation upon which they will build their lives. Seated before him are this nation's future leaders. Secretly, the eldest of these "under tens" (and wise beyond her tender years), was keenly aware of why we were here. You see she was put to task to corral this band of free spirits and convincing them to settle was not difficult. The allure of spending a rare opportunity with Great Grandpa James would not be missed under any circumstances. Great Grandpa rose to his feet, each of us quickly scrambling attempting to mirror his every move. Dusting, adjusting, drawing in the warmth of the early afternoon sun deep into his (our) lungs, while scouting the aesthetic beauty of this land. In retrospect, the venue was perfect for the epiphany moments that were about to be uttered out of the mouth of this great and gentle man I am privileged to call my Great Grandfather. I have learned never to question how he knew there was trouble-a-brewing among these fiercely independent, competitive youth. At issue was this group's choice of a leader for the first string of their field lacrosse team. Hands now buried to the wrists, my Elder speaks of a time not so long ago where there was a similar dispute over who would be best suited to lead our community through the first of many long arduous struggles. He spoke of a time that has not changed and never shall. That is: our community is "chock-full" of present-day leaders, future leaders and leaders in their respective fields of expertise. 85 (, i I, i ,: II ,·1 i '! I! i :1! ii i,- ' ,:i Charlotte Mearns Charlotte Mearns The combined application of these skills and experience, all contribute to strengthen of the fabric of this community. The Creator has granted each of us a set of splendid gifts as individual as we are, and each of us will be called upon at some point in our life to lead. Collectively, we must utilize these gifts and strive to identify the sources of our conflict; and through mutually respectful dialogue work toward resolution, not division. Visibly navigating the recesses of his distant memory, he carefully chose a series of real-life stories that depicted a difficult time in our history, as a people striving to retain some semblance of culture in the face of sustained assimilation practices foisted upon us by the once "intruders," now having assumed roles as present-day governors. The late afternoon summer breeze picks up momentum, fragrant with the distinctive whiff of freshly fallen cedars in the distance and gently depositing invisible crystals of saltiness to our lips. We walked in silence, already practicing these newly acquired tools of dispute resolution by not fighting over which of us would be lucky enough to hold Great Grandpa's hand. Deference was afforded to the littlest of these little listeners, who were most needy of the comfort of that leathery bear-paw that held the most gentle of touch. Specific details of the long list of overlapping stories with a cast of hundreds are a distant memory now. The lessons however, are indelibly etched in my psyche, and form an integral part of who I am and how I navigate the management of my life. My lessons of this indescribable man have been many and my Creator has blessed me and granted me gifts of leadership, recently summoned to the challenge. Great Grandpa's son (my Mother's Father) informed me that I was "put here to help my people and that I had a responsibility to go forth and achieve." Present-day opportunities suggest that it may be my tum to lead our people on a path toward greater relief for the many social-ills and systemic injustices our people face daily. These lessons of conflict resolution through leadership and consensus are shared responsibilities of we Aboriginal people. Only good can come from the renewed application of these tools in our every day lives, under the ever-loving guidance of these great men and women I am privileged to call my ancestors. From the north bank of their traditional territory (on what they ow call the Fraser River), this direct descendent of the First People of ~his land surveys with great pride the band of "little listeners" convened before her ... ... this Elder quietly speaks. O'siem I I I I I 86 87 Karen Pheasant Karen Pheasant This story is an experience I shared with some of the Lake of Th Woods Anishnaabe Grandmothers, in the early 1990's. It is about: dance our people shared with the Pow-wow dance world. It is a