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1

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Gatherings VI

"Metamorphosis"

Manifesting and Respecting
Diversity In Our Transformation

Theytus Books Ltd.
Penticton, BC

Table of Contents
GATHERINGS:
The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples

Volume VI - 1995
Published annually by the Theytus Books Ltd. and the En'owkin
Centre for the En'owkin International School of Writing

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Gatherings
Annual

ISSN

1180-0666

ISBN 0-919441-80-7

1. Canadian literature (English)--Indian authors--Periodcals.
2. Canadian literature (English)--20th century--Periodicals.
3. American literature--Indian authors--Periodicals.
4. American literature--20th century--Periodicals.
I. En'owkin International School of Writing.
II. En'owkin Centre.
PS8235
C810.8'0897
CS90-31483-7
Managing Editors:
Associate Editors:
Page Composition:
Proofreading:
Cover Design:
Cover Art:

Don Fiddler and Linda Jaine
Gerry William, Greg Young-Ing
Jeannette Annstrong
Marlena Dolan, Regina Gabriel
Regina Gabriel, Nancy Bomberry
Armand Gamet Ruffo
Marlena Dolan
Mary Longman

Please send submissions and letters to 'Gatherings', c/o En'owkin Centre,
257 Brunswick Street, Penticton, B.C. V2A 5P9 Canada. All submissions
must be accompanied by self-addressed stamped envelope (SASE). Manuscripts without SASEs may not be returned. We will not consider previously
published manuscripts or visual art.
Copyright remains with the artist and/or author. No portion of this journal may
be reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission from the
author and/or artist.
Typeset by Theytus Books Ltd. Printed and bound in Canada
Copyright 1995 for the authors

The publisher acknowledges the support of the Canada Council, Department
of Communications and the Cultural Services Branch of the Province of
British Columbia in the publication of this book.

Transition
Bill Cohen
Lonely Metaphors Are Story-less Figures
How'll You Understand
Nelson J. Augustine
Joshua and the Troop Leader
Ardell Polus-Bombay
The Rhythm of Letting Go
Small Stories of Mixed Blood
Sally-Jo Bowman
Aloha Ojibwa
Frank Conibear
the child standing alone sings

5

8

14

18
22

(a residential school history lesson)

Story Teller
Kateri Damm
becoming woman
Brenda Prince
Mind's Eye
Debby Keeper
I'm Age
Repatriate
Colours
Barbara-Helen Hill
Decisions
Dona F. Lewis
The Dance
A String Around Their Fingers
Her Touch
Stone
Sketchings
Always There
Raven Hail
Cherokee Wisdom: Balance The Earth
Randy Lundy
Road Allowance
My Lodge
Blue Heron (Jose Garza)
Native Reality #2 (for Nora Chap Mendoza)

24

26

30

35

41

48
50

52

t
A. Rodney Bobiwash
New Mexico
Tonina
Melvina Mack
Veil of Timelessness
Myles MacMillan
Lysol
John
Kateri Damm
The Blackbird Cage

54

Judith Mtn. LeafVolborth
Mary Jane
Motion
Visual Pun I
Visual Pun II

56

112

58

Conversion
63

Alteration
73
Henry Michel
The Rise and Fall of Everlasting
About Leukaemia
76
Tiffany Midge
Pieces of Glass Resembling a Human Heart
1 900 - Deliver Me
Ode To The Horse Powered Engine
84
Isabelle Louise Hill
Life Long Leaming
Assimilation or Acculturation
88
Brenda Prince
city slick her
scene in a supermarket
90
Strong Morning Sky
The Heart's of Womyn
91
Dawne Starfire
Dawne Starfire
The Wind
93
Victoria Lena Manyarrows
Tum of The Earth
Spirit People
96
Laurie Weahkee
Dialogue About Them
103
Barbara-Helen Hill
Never Again
Eruption
107
Sharron Proulx
she reading her blanket with her hands: part 1: dear diary

•,.
•I

t
•
I

•
•

l

•
•I

•
•
•

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t

Armand Garnet Ruffo
She Asked Me
Daniel David Moses
A Spell In The Red
Lines Upon The Flow
Russell Teed
Daddy?
Jacqueline Oker
Assa
Copy Cats
Lysol
Annie Bosum
A Summer Ending
Annita McPhee
Drumbeat
A.A. Hedge Coke
Digs
Laurie Weahkee
woven blue shadows
Jack D. Forbes
Kinship is the Basic Principal of Philosophy
Greg Young-Ing
Don't Ask Me to Believe It

117
118
120
121

125
131
132
143
144

151

Children
Travis Hedge Coke
Age of Rap
Clouds Unnoticed
Melissa Austin
Bluejay's Free Lunch
Alison Austin
Nattie Parson's Good Luck Lamb
Josh Nelson
How The Halibut Got It's Shape

157

159
161
163

Introduction
•

I

r
r
r

At first impression he seemed forlorn. Standing awkwardly,
dressed in faded blue jeans and a tattered old shirt that once might
have been plaid, he looked out of place in comparison to the gleam
of the office furniture. It would have been easy to dismiss him, as
he hesitantly asked for help in a low toned broken English, head
bowed and submissive. Another vagrant? There were many others
seemingly like him, shadowing in the hidden corners of cites everywhere, men who seemed to have let life overwhelm them; who
found solace, comfort and forgetfulness in whatever drugs of choice
were available at the moment.
An elderly woman approached and spoke gently to him in the
soft tones of the Okanagan language. Instantly there was a transformation! His glance moved upwards, his voice became stronger
and clearer, and he seemed to grow taller as his tongue twisted
around the familiar sounds of his youth. No longer was he an unwilling observer at the fringes of an imposed culture. Through the
intertwined sounds of a seldom used language, he was reuniting
once again to his grandfather, and his grandfather before him.
In similar ways, using a new language, contemporary Aboriginal writers experience the transformational power of story. Through
the act of writing our culture is recreated,, strengthened, regenerated and eventually transmitted. Languages link people to the past,
to the roots of their being, and build bridges from the depths of
their ancestry to the present. Language is inexorably linked to culture, which is linked to self respect, which is linked to empowerment. And so the circle goes.
Knowledge and understanding are powerful tools of humankind and only through clear and accurate communication, the survival tools of culture, can First Nations people be empowered. Even
as you read this, our writers are exploring new ways, articulating
new ideas, creating contemporary culture. The stories within this
volume of Gatherings speak to transformation, to empowerment,
and to new beginnings.

Don Fiddler and Linda Jaine
1

Transition

Bill Cohen

Lonely
Metaphors
Are Story-less Figures
What's it worth
to play charades
and look for
the wishing
rock?
At an Indian assembly,
a relative is talkin' Indian,
and feelin' good about bein' mad,
mad at those who don't understand.
He did have to shift
so all would know and
remember how babies talk.
mat swit i xn numt
Do you know what
I am saying?
Wanna hear about mountains?
"Noble-majestic-great-epic."
Beautiful words? original? mine?
You see, I learned 'em from books.
We've so many people with wonder
in their voices--and yet
there are so few
gifted translators.
and that's why I look
for the wishing rock
and play charades.

5

Bill Cohen

Bill Cohen

How'll You Understand
I am here realizing art never before seen using paint wiped from
faces of Hollywood actors, and
l am here dancing in gymnasiums wearing orange and pink storebought feathers, and
I am here listening to missionaries in 1652 and on the comer of
5th Street and 3rd Avenue, and
I am here drinking cherry wine or after-shave lotion I pocketed
from London Drugs, and
l am here objecting to classification systems which logically
presume objects can't argue, and
I am here visiting my kids after finding I can fuck better than
I can be domestic, and
I am here sharing stories my grandmother told while making me
rag doll toys, and
I am here watching videos of made-up Indians getting cut down by
made-up heroes, and
I am here bumming loonies so I can sleep peacefully in the drunk
tank, and
I am here dying of TB, AIDS, VD, OD and paying for it with BC,
PEI, AB, NWT, and
I am here being molested by a priest who prays for my temporal
deliverance, and
I am here forming poems in air and on paper with others denied
entrance to the UN, and
I am here watching you follow me suspiciously when I shop for
advertised specials, and
I am here walking barefoot in the first snow and smiling at my
power, and
I am here mourning because my neighbour shot himself with the gun
I sometimes borrow, and
I am here learning to modern-dance with people from Berlin,
Nairobi, and Peking, and
I am here studying theories of academics about why their people
hate me, and
I am here bantering with the red-headed woman who says we stole
bannock from Scotland, and
I am here singing honour songs at pow-wows and reading karaoke
half pissed, and

6

I am here hitch-hiking to town on a Friday night to either get
fucked or get in a fight, and
I am here wondering if I should feel anger instead of confusion
when I experience racism, and
I am here sweating and springing into the lake through a hole I
choppedintheice,and
I am here laughing at ethnic jokes told by a Black comedian in a
red leather suit, and
I am here reading hate-literature you wrote about me even though
I thought I wasn't noticed, and
I am here respecting your beauty and believing you will learn
to appreciate mine, and
I am here ingesting your insults and I'm grateful that my colon
functions properly, and
I am here fishing salmon in 1849 and taking one from the freezer
to thaw for tomorrow, and
I am here remembering everything and everyone that happened and
re-creating myself continuously

7

Nelson J. Augustine

Nelson J. Augustine

Joshua and the Troop Leader

Two

One

"Hey Josh," Eric yelled as he went into the house to help Joshua
with his gear, "the van's here." Eric grabbed a knapsack and brought
it out to the van. He looked at Stanley, "Got the carburetter fixed,
huh?"
"Nah, but I'll be O.K. as long as I don't go over thirty."
Joshua came out the door with is pup-tent and grub. He sprang
into the van with his other friends. Meanwhile, Stanley got out,
walked around to the front of the van and popped the hood. He had
a big wrench in one hand and he began to beat on the carburetter.
"Sticky choke valve. Maybe that will loosen it up some," he said.
'Where you taking them, Stan?" Eric asked.
"You know that old logging road that goes up to the ridge ... "
"Yeah, but that's pretty swampy ground-especially this time of
year."
Stanley shot a condescending look at Eric, "Not when you get
up to the ridge. I hunt there every year."
Stanley was the administrative manager for the tribal council,
so he dido 't get to go outdoors much. But he always looked forward to the hunting season each fall, even though he definitely
was not an outdoorsman. Stanley always made sure that he brought
a skilled hunter with him, so he would stand a better chance of
bringing home a prized trophy. This stint as a boy scout leader was
only to boost his public image as a man of the woods.
"I might be out that way tomorrow," Eric added.
"Don't worry Eric. I'll take good care of your boy."
"Gotta pick up some ash for axe handles," Eric reassured
Stanley.
"I'll probably see you up there then. And don't worry about
Joshua. I know that ridge like the back of my hand."
Eric cautioned, "Well, take it easy. That ridge is forty miles out
that road and if anything should happen ... "
"Hey, we have to get going if we're going to get there by dark,"
Stanley interrupted as he turned to get in the van.

Eric saw that the hood of the van was open in Stanley's driveway. Stanley was bent over the engine, struggling to get closer to
the motor than his great belly would allow him. Eric called out,
"Hey Stan, get that carburetter fixed yet?"
Stanley shot an irritable look at Eric and wiped his hands on an
oily rag. "Not yet. Damn thing keeps stalling out when I hit thirty."
"Why don't you just take it to a mechanic?"
"You crazy? I'd rather take a hundred dollar bill and set it on
fire right here," Stanley retorted. "I'll get it yet. Probably just the
choke valve or something."
"Well, good luck anyway, Stan. You using this van to take the
boy scouts out this weekend?"
"Only if you'll let me get back to work."
"Should I get my boy ready then?"
"Yeah, yeah," Stanley grumbled.
"O.K., we'll be at home then." Eric continued on to his house.
His son, Joshua, in a crisp, clean boy scout uniform, was sitting on
the porch, sharpening his new hatchet. It came with a carrying case
that attached to a belt, and it had two pockets on it-one for a sharpening stone and the other Joshua used to hold some rabbit snares.
"Got your gear ready, son? I saw Stan up at his place getting
the van ready." Eric paused for a second, "But he might not get it
going. But get ready anyway."
"Alright Dad," replied Joshua. He slid the hatchet in the case
attached to his waist and ran inside the house.
Eric smiled as he watched his son disappear through the screen
door. He didn't have to worry about Josh, not since Josh started
hanging out with his grandfather. You couldn't keep Josh out of
the woods now. Eric's dad always brought Josh with him when he
went out spearing eels or checking the trapline. Eric noticed how
much happier both Dad and Josh seemed to be since Dad retired
and took up the life of a woodsman once again.
Eric was brought out of his thoughts by the familiar rumble of
Stanley's van as it came down the road. There were six other boys
in the van, all dressed up in boy scout uniforms.
8

Three
The road up to the ridge was pretty sloppy. The spring rains
9

Nelson J. Augustine

Nelson J. Augustine

he sprang up and scrambled away to safety. "Get away from the
van," he shrieked. "Hurry!"
The boys just stood there, dumbstruck, as they gaped at the
flames shooting from the engine.
"Goddammit!" Stanley screamed from the distance, "I said get
away!"
Snapped out of their trance, the boys scurried away from the
van. There was nothing they could do but stand there at a distance
and helplessly watch the van burn. Within half-an-hour, the van
was completely gutted, along with all of their gear.
"What are we going to do now?" Kenny asked in a shaky voice.
"We'll have to walk back," was the only thing Stanley could
think of.
"But its getting dark and I'm cold," whined Marlow.
Stanley didn't know what to do. He was beginning to wish that
he had stayed at home and watched the hockey finals on T.V., with
an ice-cold beer in his hand. Standing in the pouring rain, twentyfive miles from nowhere, somehow made the whole idea of being
back in the comfort of his own home seem so remote and unreal.
They didn't have transportation, shelter, food ... not even an axe.
Like the rest of the boys, Stanley was cold and wet; and he didn't
feel like walking the whole night in the rain. What they needed
right away was a fire.
Decidip.g to make a fire, Stanley began to collect the sticks
which were lying on the ground. The wood was saturated and despite Stanley's efforts to light them up, they simply would not catch
on fire. He cursed at the top of his lungs and kicked the pile of
sticks away.
"I know how to start a fire."

were relentless and the deep ruts were filled with muddy water.
The weatherman had said that the weekend would be clear and
sunny, which was why Stanley had chosen this weekend for the
camp-out, but the weatherman is right only half the time, and he
sure wasn't right about his forecast this time.
The swamp which bordered the old logging road was flooded
and it came only inches from covering the road itself. The rain
began to fall heavily as they turned onto the logging road.
Inside the van, the heater was turned on full, driving away the
damp chill of the spring air. The boys were oblivious to the dreary
conditions outside. Joshua was glad his cousins were there--Lloyd
and Carl. Then there was Kevin and Russell--two boys Joshua
knew from school and played with at times. Of course there was
Kenny, Stanley's boy, and the chief's son, Marlow. They were all
looking forward to the camping trip and they chattered excitedly.
The entourage was about twenty-five miles out when the van
skidded off the logging road, into a water-filled ditch. The van
became hopelessly mired within seconds. Stanley let out a long
tirade of obscenities as he shifted the gears from forward to reverse and back again in an effort to rock the van free, but it was
obviously futile. The van was stuck.
"Alright boys, get out there and see if you can push me out,"
Stanley ordered.
"But the ditch is full of water," complained Marlow.
"Well, do you want to be stuck out here all night long?" Stanley
snapped.
"Jeepers creepers! I'd better get my good deed badge for this!"
The boys crawled out of the van into knee-deep water. They
stood there in the pouring rain, grimacing visibly. Inside the van,
the temperature light on the dash lit up, indicating that the engine
was beginning to overheat, due to the constant revving of the engine; but Stanley ignored it. Had he known that he damaged the
carburetter when he hammered it with the wrench, and that gasoline was now spewing over the hot engine, he would have shut the
engine down immediately. But he was just as frustrated as the boys
and he continued to gun the engine. Smoke began to pour out from
under the hood, and seconds later flames leapt out from the grill.
"Fire!" Stanley yelled as he dashed from the van, tripped and
landed face-down in the ditch. He barely had time to get wet when

Joshua immediately became self-conscious as everybody turned
around to see that it was he who had spoken. Flustered as he was,
Joshua could only comment on the most obvious, "We need dry
wood."
Joshua knew that because of the wet spring, all of the wood
lying on the ground would be as wet as a sponge. His grandfather
had shown him how to find dry wood in a situation like this.

IO

11

Four

Nelson J. Augustine

Nelson J. Augustine

Joshua quickly scanned his surroundings until he spotted what
he was looking for. He pointed to a thicket of young maple trees.
They were about four inches in diameter. Three of the young trees
in the cluster did not have any buds on them and their bark was
hanging in shreds. Joshua knew that these trees were dead and
would be dry on the insides. "There's some dry wood."
Joshua still had his hatchet with him and he began to chop the
dead maples down. He then cut them up into firewood lengths and
split them.
Kevin picked one of the split pieces and examined it. "Hey,
this wood's dry!" he announced.
Joshua continued to split some of his wood until they were
about the thickness of a pencil. The rest he left as halves and quarters. He then peeled some birchbark from a nearby tree and stacked
the pencil-sized pieces of wood on top of it. The fire caught immediately when a match was put to it. Joshua waited until the fire was
well established before he put the larger pieces of wood on it.
Feeling more confident in himself, Joshua announced, "We'll
need some shelter from the rain. We need some lean-to's."
Joshua cut some spruce saplings and arranged them into a ramplike framework. On the ramp of the frame, he placed more saplings horizontally and parallel to each other, spacing them about
two feet apart. He fastened these saplings with everybody's donated shoelaces.
Joshua explained as he was tying the saplings, "Usually you'd
use spruce roots, but modem stuff has its uses-saves time, too."
Next, Joshua went to a nearby stand of fir trees and began to
break off boughs about three feet long. The other boys, sensing
that Joshua had some kind of purpose for these boughs, began to
do likewise.
Joshua noticed that the boys were breaking the boughs off indiscriminately, in lengths varying from six inches to two feet. "No.
We need them this long," Joshua corrected the boys, showing them
a bough from his bundle.
As the scout troop was busily collecting fir boughs, Joshua
began to thatch the roof of the lean-to he had made. He snapped off
a sprig at the thick end of the fir boughs, leaving a hooklike feature. Joshua hung these boughs by their hooks across the lowest
sapling, lashed horizontally across the back of the lean-to.

The boy scouts returned with a great supply of fir boughs, just
as Joshua was beginning the row directly about the first row. The
second row overlapped the first row by a foot. The third row likewise overlapped the second row, and so on, until Joshua had reached
the top.
"See how the rain runs down the upper row of boughs," Joshua
demonstrated. "When it gets to the next row it keeps running down,
to the next rows until it runs off onto the ground at the back. Neat,
huh? You guys want to try one. We might need two lean-to's."
Joshua supervised the boys' progress as they avidly worked on
the second lean-to. The work was finished and Joshua seemed satisfied with the craftsmanship.
"My grandfather uses cedar boughs for the floor," Joshua commented and he began to gather some. "We're going to need more
firewood, too, for the whole night."
Within minutes, the boy scouts demonstrated how well they
had learned their lessons, when they brought back armloads of dry,
seasoned hardwood. The boys were laughing and beginning to look
like they were enjoying themselves.
Stanley, who had been sullen throughout the entire situation
and who had done nothing but squat by the fire, warming his hands,
abruptly rose to his feet and declared, "We're still twenty-five miles
from nowhere. What are we going to eat, how are we going to get
back?"
Instinctively, the boys turned to Joshua. Joshua smiled and said,
"My Dad's coming by tomorrow, but if you guys want some rabbits for breakfast, I'll set up a few snares right now. I saw a few
nice rabbit trails back there. I'll guarantee at least two by morning."
"Yeah!" the boys declared unanimously, gathering around
Joshua, eager to learn the next lesson in wood lore.

12

13

Ardell Po/us-Bombay

Ardell Po/us-Bombay

The Rhythm of Letting Go

Small Stories Of Mixed Blood

From the river bank
we watch the salmon struggle.
So many eyes trained on the flash,
the surge of silver and fin.
They tum upstream
tom and ragged,
hollow-eyed and yellow
in the cold November sun.
On the river's edge,
I kiss you one last time.
We have come back to knowing
we can't hold each other any more.

"Marry a white man and you '/l have everything."
My mother learned to listen too well
to Sister Dodo's* teachings
at St. Mary's Residential School.
Mom's status stripped at her first wedding,
she became a Finnish Subject
without ever knowing.
My father was her second husband
from across the cold ocean.
My grandfather danced down Main street,
red and yellow feathers
bright against his brown skin,
his mocassined feet stepping
lightly on the hot summer pavement,
my small feet, already trained
in the five positions of ballet
tapping each drum beat,
the rhythm reaching into my stomach
pulling me from the sidewalk.
My father's pale hand held me back.
Daddy told his friends
Mom had blue blood,
him being Aryan and all,
they accepted his excuse,
said she was too pretty
to be any old squaw.
He cut the plug from the t.v.
when Barbara Streisand sang,
put it back with black tape
for CBC specials on W.W. II,
he'd bark at us in German,
tell us how it really was.

14

15

Ardell Po/us-Bombay

Ardell Po/us-Bombay

Mom grew paler over the years,
an unseen leech bleeding colour
from her cheeks each Saturday night
when Daddy drove us downtown,
pointed at the drunks waddling
from bar to bar; at the kid waiting on the curb
with a bag of chips, a bottle of orange crush.
He told her she wasn't like them,
shook his finger and told me how lucky I was.
Daddy bought her booze to drink at home,
stashed his under the porch stairs.
He'd be sober when she woke up;
Mama still craved the sweet wine.
At school I heard talk of Indians
in from a good week's fishing,
they'd fight for their weekend catch,
someone swinging a 2x4 like a war club,
both men and women scrapping
on the street called Apache Pass.*
My wide-eyed white friends
said I wasn't like them.
I hid Mom's bottles, kept her inside
so they wouldn't see her staggering.
The white boys whispered
about hot-blooded, half-breed girls.
Teddy B. figured he'd try taking me
behind the bushes at the park.
He told his friends how I opened my legs,
offering myself against the tree,
how I was dark all over and oh, so easy,
the white girls sneered,
how could I at thirteen?
I lowered my eyes and bit my lips,
let them spread their stories.
I went searching for myself,
the pack heavy on my back.
16

My cousins called me apple,
said my green eyes were like go lights
flashing at the good looking drummers.
They told me mooniaquay were loose.
Indian women are modest,
so I lowered my eyes and spent
the next ten years wandering,
wishing for shiny black braids.
I came home and found my mother
praying to Jesus in Ojibway,
lying in the dingy bedroom
the chemo's venom in her veins,
the light strained through the drapes
giving her face a pale green tinge.
I knew the cancer leech
was bloated with Mama's red blood.
Daddy started burning her things
before she was dead; the fire was small.
At thirty, I sat on the shoulders
of Bear Butte watching the storm
roll closer across the open plains.
With every lightning strike
I cried for my grandfather,
offering tobacco as each foot
touched down beside me,
the drum in my chest beating.
In this black light I knew
the colour of my skin.

*Sister Dodo=Mom always talked about Sister Dondot..l thought it was
"Dodo". As well as being an extinct bird species, dodo also means "teat"
inOjibway.
*Apache Pass=Famous section of lower third avenue in Prince Rupert.
*Mooniaquay=White woman.
*Bear Butte=Ceremonial fasting grounds, S. Dakota.
17

Sally-Jo Bowman

Sally-Jo Bowman

Aloha Ojibwa
. August, it was, and Sunday, the Kaministikwia River drifting
wide and gentle past the front gate of Ontario's Old Fort William.
Inside the palisades, on a dampish patch of lawn, fifteen men and
wo~en sat crosslegged on a circle of Hudson's Bay blankets. They
had JUSt be~~ the Ojibwa purification ceremony at Keeshigun,
the annual Ojibwa weekend celebration at the living history furtrade era fort.
I ~ad come the day before, a writer on vacation, peeking 200
years mto the past. I live in Oregon, far from Ontario, equally far
from my ancestors' Pacific homeland, where I was born. Today
my travelling companion opted for church, and I returned to Old
Fort William alone, thinking to catch the demonstration of canoebuilding, to converse with voyageurs and clarks.
T?e dance ground of the day before, where I had seen a regal
man m purple and a younger Ojibwa in striking black and white
lay quiet in the early morning. On the nearby lawn, slightly insid~
the blanket circle, a small woman intoned something too softly for
me to hear. I stepped closer. A man beckoned me to one remaining
seat on the grass.
I sat, removed my sandals. What to do now? I had meant to be
an observer. To my left sits the purple warrior from the dance now
wearing jeans and a crumpled white cotton shirt. Before hi~ on
the ground, grasses smoulder in an abalone shell. He whooshes the
smoke over his head, around his body. Then he leans, whispers to
me: "Remove your jewellery to smudge."
My insides churn like the volcanic middle earth, reminding me
how I hate well meaning but ignorant strangers appropriating my
people'~ ceremonies, how I despise arrogant tourists denigrating
our ancient gods. What to do? Clearly the warrior expects me to
"smudge."
My rings stick. I lick my finger, force the first ring over my
knuckle. The bowl of smoke passes around the entire circle clockwis~, back to me. I don't know what to do. I look to my new friend.
He Just_ nods. I lean over, inhaling cautiously. To my surprise, the
smoke 1s calming. I turn my hands over it, as if drying them. I waft
the smoke toward my face and hand the bowl to my friend. It feels
18

like a chalice.
The bowl passes back to the elder leading the group. She
smudges last, "as a sign that no one is better than any other." Those
who are Christian, she says, may recite the Lord's prayer in Ojibwa.
A few people do. She opens the circle to other prayers, exhorts us
to include all people in our supplications, tells us that's why Indi~ns refer to four colours, for all the people of the earth. She says it
1s up to us to set things right.
In the silence, an axe splitting firewood rings out from across
the fort's main square. To my right, a white man prays for the black
birch dying from acid rain. A woman across the circle confesses
how embarrassed she is to be white, how she carries the sins of the
fathers. My friend on my left prays: "I thank the Great Spirit for
the gift of sight to see the beauty of the Earth, for the gift of
smell...the gift ofhearing .. .I thank the Great Spirit for the privilege
of having a family to care for."
To me his English words from his Ojibwa heart are like new
fire under a full kettle. I think of how I renounced Christianity long
ago, of meeting an old Mohawk chief some years later. He looked
at me carefully and said, "What are you? I see in your eyes you
must go back to your people." Now, at words from another Indian
the reservoir that is my heart bursts. My eyes fill with tears. M;
nose begins to drip, but I dare not wipe it. And then, almost choking, I do something I have not done since I was a Sunday School
child: I pray by myself out loud. "I pray for my people," I begin.
"Who are Hawaiian. I pray for my people, the people of all the
Earth. I pray that we let the Earth heal us, that we in turn might
heal the Earth." I have finished. I try not to sniffle.
The elder looks up. "Thank you," she says. "Thank you." She
and two young Indian men flanking her take up rattles, and sing in
Ojibwa. The ceremony is over.
My new friend, the purple warrior, speaks. Vernon Kimball, a
name as Indian as mine is Hawaiian, a name because our grandmothers or our grandmothers' grandmothers married white men
who came to their lands. Vernon wants to know about Hawaiians.
I tell him how I go home twice a year to learn, to write about my
people. He asks if I would speak a few words at the dance in the
afternoon. I am a writer, not a speaker. I sweat fear thinking about
how large the crowd was yesterday. Hundreds, maybe a thousand.
19

Sally-Jo Bowman

Sally-Jo Bowman

Once, years ago, I spoke to a group of 50, rattled for days before
and after. I swallow hard, and I think "no." And then I hear myself
say, "Of course."
Vernon says, "I have to go now. I'll find you later. Let you
know." He disappears across the lawn. No time, no place, I'm off
the hook, I think. Good. I spoke my piece in the prayer.
In the afternoon the sun beats down and the drums begin. Six
singers wail in a center shade pavilion. Dancers of America's First
Nations wind around the circle in waving ranks, moccasined toes
keeping the rhythm, point-step,point-step. I am squeezed among
the spectators. Around the curve comes the young man I'd seen
yesterday in the dance with Vernon. Three-fourths of his face is
painted white. His long black hair flows over his white bone breastplate. Eagle feathers on his head and back fan with power, black
leggings are striped in white.
Vernon steps out of the dance, leans toward me and says
"Come." I follow. He introduces me to the announcer, who says
"in five minutes, at the end of this song."
Vernon takes my hand and lays it open. "I have the traditional
gift for you." He lays a pinch of tobacco in my palm, and slides
back into the dance. The tobacco is a light rusty brown, fine in
texture. I close my hand over it and with my fist I press a little
tablet against my leg. With my other hand I write some notes. My
pen struggles. What will I say? My handwriting careens nervously
over the small page. I hear my name on the speakers. My heart
thumps like the drums, my perspiring hand clutches the tobacco.
"Aloha. I am native Hawaiian." My voice comes from the speakers clearly, slowly. I feel like I have unwrapped in front of what
seems the whole world a secret I should never have kept. People
listen. "I bring greetings to all of you and especially the Ojibwa
and other nations, from the aboriginal people of our islands in the
middle of the Pacific Ocean. We share a similar history of losing
our traditional lands. We also share a similar commitment to regaining and perpetuating our culture."
My scrawly notes look to me like someone else wrote them.
But I know the voice I hear is mine. "One hundred years ago our
political and cultural sovereignty was stolen by a small group of
foreign sugar planters backed by the United States military. Now
we fight to regain that sovereignty. Part of our mission is to restore

our cultural and spiritual tie with the Earth, a tie similar to that of
all Native peoples. We work for a time when once again we will
regard all the Earth as sacred, when we do not distinguish church
buildings as the only holy places.
"One hundred and fifty years ago our king gave us the words
that are now the state motto: Ua mau ke ea o ka 'aina i ka pono.
The life of the land shall flourish when all is set to rights."
I hand back the microphone, stand beside the MC. The drums
resume. And out of the dancers comes the young man in black and
white. He takes my hand, holds onto it, locks his eyes into mine. "I
shall always remember your words," he says. "Thank you."
The announcer thanks me, the elder from the purification ceremony thanks me. Vernon thanks me. I walk away, sit on a wooden
box to recover. Again I fight tears. I am proud of myself, a Native
person standing among other native people, standing to be counted.
But I must do something with Vernon's tobacco, now sculpted
by sweat and shaped by the life line of my hand. I sit on the box,
my tobacco hand as useless as if it were in a sling. I cannot throw
this gift away. I must honour its sacred meaning. In a few moments
it comes to me; I'll wrap the tobacco and take it home, to offer it to
Pele, our goddess of the volcano. I'll offer it for all of us trying to
keep our heritage alive as we face the turn of another century. To
Hawaiians, Pele is the literal, fiery force that destroys the old land
and builds the new. To me she also is the symbol of my people's
metamorphosis, and of mine, as we rise from the shards of our
shattered culture. From Pele's ever-dynamic work is formed the
earth.
I fetch a paper towel from the ladies' room, carefully wrap the
tobacco in it, and walk down the path that leads out of Fort William
along the wide and gentle Kaministikwia River, down the path that
leads from this land of strong and gentle warriors to my homeland
in the middle of the Western sea.

20

21

Frank Conibear

Frank Conibear

who remained.

the child standing alone sings
(a residential school history lesson)
there was time
when children were sent away.
there was a time
when children were sent far away.
there they learned many things:
not to speak their language,
not to listen to their ancestors
not to respect their culture,
not to listen to their grandparents;
not to pray to their spirit,
not to listen to their own "self'.
there they learned many things.
some returned, some couldn't.
they, each one, was like
a child standing alone
between
two parents
fighting.
the children had children
of their own,
but remain as
the child standing alone,
not knowing how to give
all the things they were
not given.
today,
the children, today's generation
are returning
home seeking the elders
22

let the children
lead the way back;
teach them to sing the songs.
and
let the child standing
alone sing too the songs,
and
let the child discover
a healing song.

Story-teller
i want to
reach into the heart of the old stories,
and feel the beat of the drum
around the former fires of my ancestors.
and when the story-teller steps out to speak
i want to hear the words
as they were meant to be said:
the lessons, the humour, the
accompanying gesture, the rhythm,
the connection created with the
community, the families.
i want to hear the words
come alive as the fire bums
into the night.
i want the words
to enter my body
and when i speak
the stories to come alive
with today's ears, eyes and spirit.

23

Kateri Damm

Kateri Damm

spinning
the thoughts that would give me the freedom of swallows
wmgs

becoming woman
and there was me small and wordless
struggling to impose my presence
even as i melted to the ground beneath my toes
and the wind carried my voice to the tops of the maple trees
left it hovering in nests afraid to fly
afraid that trying would leave me wounded
when the ground pulled me down yet again
but wanting to taste the clouds
wanting to be seen by those other ground dwellers
as free and brave and beautiful as i dreamed i could be
and there was me tripping and skinning my knees
wanting to be unbending
sure as the escarpment behind me
but losing the battle not to cry instead
wiping pebbles and dirt from the scrapes
while the others jumped from the cherry tree
the blossoms floating around them like magic
i watched while my face burned
saw them for a moment suspended
using their own power to push beyond the force of gravity

and there was me kneeling at the shore
seeing myself for the first time
as i cupped my hands and reached
the water was cold against my teeth
pure to the touch
i gulped the water and wiped it across my eyes nose mouth ears
then i knew for certain who i was
and in that moment i could speak
i was alive

and there was me always a step behind
or left forgotten in my hiding place when the game ended
and the others went home to eat their soup and fry bread
and there was me keeping my secrets quiet
waiting to be discovered
but emerging hours later to no one
nothing but the pangs of hunger that keep memory alive
and there was me growing and realizing the dreaming had
begun
that i could stop fighting my shadow
and move to the edges where the centre of my world would set

24

25

Brenda Prince

Brenda Prince

Mind's Eye
Noreen had been drinking heavily each weekend. She thought
it either luck or irony her working at a major chain of yuppiehippie coffee shops. Here she had a wide choice of a variety of
coffee to ease the hangovers. Thank god she had a prescription for
T3's to take on Sundays because she'd probably be crazy or even
dead by now.
A regular at the coffee shop had asked her out and thinking it
would be a nice diversion from her usual weekend binge, Noreen
agreed. The movie they went to see was written and directed by a
child actor now grown up. Noreen always remembered him barefoot in overalls and the show's theme music would play in her
head. Now he was a successful Hollywood movie director.
The movie was a love story about an Irish couple immigrating
to America. Noreen and her date sat in the darkness and enjoyed
their popcorn and pop and the movie. Halfway into the film a scene
of the Oklahoma Land Rush appeared on the gigantic screen. There
they were! Settlers! All lined up in their wagons and horses and
ready to go. And like a children's party game, they were offl The
prizes were chunks of Native land.
Noreen felt a King Kong size hand slap her across the face.
She couldn't believe this little child actor she had watched grow
up and she had grown to admire would actually glorify something
she really hated. Noreen couldn't believe this yuppie-hippie guy
beside her, who probably thought they could have a cross-cultural
love affair, actually brought her to this movie glorifying something
she really hated.
In an instant Noreen was out of her seat and running down the
aisle to the screen. She jumped up on the stage and yelled out to
the audience, "You people think this is great? Well, it's not! It's
wrong. What's wrong with this picture? This is wrong!" Noreen
pointed to the screen.
The projected picture cast Noreen in a surreal glow making her
a small distortion in the lower centre of the film. Noreen felt like
an actor in a vaudeville show and liked the feeling. She continued,
"Land grabbing other people's land! Don't you get it? Oh, you got
it all right. You got it all!"
26

"Get the fuck outta the way, idiot!" someone yelled.
"Hey, it's a crazy squaw! Someone shoot 'er!" yelled another.
"I think she's gonna burn those wagons," commented another.
Two ushers proceeded to carry Noreen off the stage and escort
her arm in arm back up the aisle to the front exit. Noreen glanced
at her date as she passed by and saw him trying to hide under his
cute little Guatemalan cap with wisps of blond hair peeking out.
A cop car was waiting in front and in Noreen's mind the back
door magically opened by itself. A crowd gathered to see which
star was exiting to this limo. Noreen waved to her fans, "Good
night dawlings. Next show at nine."
Noreen sat on the plastic mattress of the lower bunk hugging
her bent legs. She rested her head on her knees and stared at the
jail floor. She was contemplating how easy it was for a person to
let themselves go crazy. If you want it bad enough it could happen.
Just let yourself go.
Noreen had always admired crazy people. She would occasionally see them on the street or the bus. The one she took particular
notice of always seemed so happy. He was always on the bus she
caught to work. He would head straight to the back and lie across
the elongated seat. Propping one leg up and crossing the other over
he would enjoy the music of his walkman, completely oblivious to
all other normal people who would eye him with distaste.
Noreen wanted to be part of that world. She hated this world.
She hated this city. She knew everybody thought she was inferior.
She could feel it emanating from them. Sometimes alone in her
apartment she could feel negative thoughts coming through the
walls. The thoughts weren't actual words but she knew out there
the general masses took it as a given, "Indians are the lowest."
When she went out in the world she could see it in people's eyes.
Now she knew the way to get out of the ugly way she felt. She
would just leave.
First stop was a memory.
Noreen was twelve when she got a stamp collecting starter kit
for Christmas. In the spring she would bike to the neighbourhood
library to study stamp catalogues. For a break she would read
Ti2erbeat magazines and gaze at pictures of Donny Osmond and
other teen idols.
On one library visit Noreen started to file her pre-teen nails

27

Brenda Prince

Brenda Prince

with the metal nailfile she carried in her pencil case. While contemplating the photograph of one particular teen idol Noreen wondered if she'd grow up and marry someone rich and famous. She
started to imagine this scenario and smiled at the idea.
Quickly she was brought back to reality by a tight squeeze to
her wrist. "You're going to have to leave," said a stem looking
librarian as she snatched the nailfile from Noreen's hand.
"What?" said a confused Noreen.
"I could call the police but as long as you leave and don't return, that'll be good enough," continued the disgruntled woman.
"What did I do?" asked Noreen.
Another voice interjected, "Oh, she's pretending she didn't do
it now. Isn't it like them people, lying all the time."
Noreen looked for the first time at a grey-haired woman standing by the next circular table.
"You were threatening me with your knife," resumed the elderly woman in a malicious tone.
Noreen was as equally shocked at the accusation as she was
that it was coming out of the mouth of a little old lady. She thought
all elders were kind and caring no matter what colour they were.
"I never did. That's my nailfile. I was .." but she was cut off.
"Leave now, or I will call the police," warned the librarian.
A group of library patrons had gathered and Noreen stood up
and walked out. She had a hard time riding her bike home through
her tears and when she finally made it home Noreen went straight
to her room and cried herself into a nap.
"Wakey, wakey! Time to go little lady," a voice echoed through
the concrete walls.
Noreen opened her eyes. It was check out time at the crowbar
hotel. She pondered the daydream she just had. It was so vivid she
tried to shake that woman's voice out of her ears. Noreen knew if
she could see that old lady right now she probably would stab her.
Once outside the police station Noreen lit a cigarette and debated whether to go back to work. "I'm probably fired," and with
that she decided to go to the bar for a beer. She looked at her watch
and knew the bar just opened.
Noreen walked toward the main drag. She looked ahead and
spotted an old lady, almost still if you dido 't notice the walker in
front of her lifting up and moving forward every now and then.

Noreen tried to imagine the woman's thoughts and was looking
forward to being face to face with the slow moving target.
Noreen knew she was an innocent good little kid but because
of being an Indian other people felt she was less than them. Noreen
knew if this woman looked at her the wrong way then she would
be forced to say, or do, something not nice. That's what was expected of a downtown Indian.
Noreen was a few feet away from the woman when a dark figure ran by and like a scene out of some action movie knocked the
old lady and her walker over then grabbed her purse and ran away.
The old lady turned her head and looked up at Noreen. Noreen
looked down at the woman lying on the sidewalk, looked into her
pale blue eyes and expected to hear the same cutting voice she
heard long ago but never forgot.
"He took my purse," was all she spoke.
Noreen noted the haltingly hurt sound and noticed no trace of
cruelty. For a split second two opposing forces waged a one-sided
battle somewhere in the back of her mind. Noreen knew it could be
circumstance but nevertheless she took off her leather jacket, folded
it, placed it gently under the woman's head and shouted out, "Someone call the cops or an ambulance, now, please!"
Noreen sat and waited with the woman until help arrived. The
city wind blew dust in their direction and Noreen repositioned herself to block it. No words were spoken between them until the
sound of an approaching siren could be heard. "Thank you," the
older woman managed to say.
Noreen looked at her again, smiled and said, "That's alright."

28

29

Debby Keeper

Debby Keeper

l'MAGE

REPATRIATE

i'm age
image of woman
female of species
enchanting
light of the moon
passion, encounter
vital fluid of life
cosmic clockwork
eternity.

they dance
stepping to the beat
of Mother's heart
bright colours swirl
bells, cones, jingle.
the midday sun
scorches my eyes
sting in a bitter
yet joyous way.
they dance
for the old ones
for those here and now
and for those to come.
Mother's heart continues
to pound
with ancient footsteps
through times of sorrow
in times of joy.
detached i sit
outside the circle
wondering
what its like
within.
feeling shy
stupid
i should know
what these songs mean.

illusive dream
image of woman
short tight skirts
fast cars
twenty foot round
rotating bed
mirrors to prove
mirrors say
that is me
you
us.
image of woman
skeletal
full with child
she stumbles
through a desert
a desperate search
for hope
a bowl of sustenance
plague free water
i hear a voice
from the back
comment on her bare breasts.

30

31

Debby Keeper

Debby Keeper

i feel
incomplete
not knowing
what they say.
the sweat burns me
beautiful names
never given me
colours
out of reach.
i dare not
raise my eyes
not knowing
what to do
what to say
how to smoke
how to pray.

COLOURS
When I was little
I attended nursery school
down on Broadway and Langside
that's where I'd met my friend
Cheryl.
We were inseparable.
One day after playing with some new kids
I'd come home with a head full of lice
I was sternly told to never play there again
those people were dirty.
I could tell Mom was mad
by the way she scrubbed at my hair.
At daycare, this girl Rosemary
who i didn't like very much
asked me if i knew why Cheryl was black.
I didn't know;
she said Cheryl was black
because she never took a bath.

never having
belonged
i know not how.

Later, Cheryl came over
and wanted to play
I knew I wasn't supposed to
not with dirty people
I'd get lice
get heck again.
So I pushed her away,
hard
but she wouldn't go.
Teacher saw us fighting
and took us away
to separate rooms.

32

33

Debby Keeper

Barbara-He/en Hill

A while later,
she returned to say
that I'd hurt Cheryl's feelings
she didn't understand
why I suddenly acted like I hated her.
I said I didn't
it was just that Cheryl was black
and Rosemary said it was because
she never bathed
and I didn't want to get lice again
or I'd get my hair scrubbed hard.
She looked sad and asked,
Do you like flowers?
Yes.
Are they not many beautiful colours?
Yes.
When Creator made the flowers
they were painted many colours
to make each one special.
In this way the people were also painted.
Like Cheryl?
Like Chery 1.
Like Rosemary?
Like you,
like me.

Decisions
Emilie stood at the corner. She had to make a decision: to go to
school or go to the restaurant and wait. Emilie's mind was on the
man who danced in her dreams each night; the man who made her
blood tingle with anticipation. School didn't matter. The only thing
that mattered was being alone with him.
Ten minutes before he started his shift, Sam, the waiter, sipped
his coffee. What, he thought, do I do now? What do I do if she
comes in? She's only sixteen, yet I really get a charge outta her. I
like the way she looks and the way she swings her legs off the stool
when she's done her coke. Hmm, I really could make those legs
swing. I can't do anything about it though. She's too young, and
yet? Maybe later.
Emilie was sixteen and yearned for the tall waiter with dark
wavy hair, and electric blue eyes fringed with thick dark lashes.
She craved for his arms to hold her. She wanted his hands to mould
her flesh and touch her heart. The ache was unbearable. Emilie no
more wanted to be in school than she wanted to be at home
babysitting her brother.
Brunette hair hung about her thin shoulders. Her ebony eyes
held generations of memories; the pain of her grandmothers as
they spoke of the residential school and the education system that
had changed their lives; her grandmother's songs of grief as they
left their natural teachers behind in their villages. She didn't want
to be like her grandmothers sitting in their homes or at bingo with
a taste of bitterness on their lips. Emilie knew she wanted the taste
of sweetness and she knew where she had to go to fill that desire.

. ..

Sam wasn't interested in waiting on tables, and he wasn't waiting 'till the end of the week for his pay check. He was free, twentyone and Cree. With twenty bucks in his pocket, he gazed at the
door of the diner. He knew in a moment he would leave. He remembered the old men as they sat with their beers in their hands,
their stories on their lips and the dim lights flickering in their eyes.
That light would go out soon. The spirits were quietly leaving town.
34

35

Barbara-Helen Hill

Barbara-Helen Hill

Emilie set her books in her locker and left. She walked away
from the school. School no longer mattered. The halls of polished
tile, and the walls of painted wood, were like a prison. Emilie needed
light. She needed the spirit and the freedom of youth. And she
needed the freedom to fly with her dreams. She strode toward the
centre of town. Emilie was no longer a school girl but a woman
full of want.
Sam was ready. He hung up his apron, and donned his Blue
Jay's cap. He tilted it a little to the side and pushed it to the back of
his head. Sam was ready. Throwing his Wrangler jacket over his
shoulder and crooking one finger in the neckline, he ambled to the
door. Turning, with his free hand he tapped his finger to his forehead in recognition of his boss, as he opened the door. Just as he
did, Emilie's outstretched hand turned the handle and entered. Sam
took her hand in his and together they sauntered off.
Emilie's mind was a flurry of thoughts. Where are we going?
What is happening? Are we going away together? Oh God, he must
love me too. Would they live together forever in his little apartment? She noticed the palm of her hand in her left coat pocket was
sweaty and nervously twitching. Her heart raced. She had imagined all kinds of things laying in her bed alone at night. She had let
her hands caress her body and imagined them to be Sam's. Emilie
had never been alone with a man before. Her casual friendships
with boys were a disappointment every time she came home from
a date. She never let them touch her because to her they were mere
babies.

...

Sam glanced down at Emilie by his side and smiled his sideways grin. This could be a dream he thought. She is so beautiful.
Oh man, I could just take her right here on the street. This could
also be a nightmare. I know that this could be the best day of my
life or it could be ... what? Is this my ticket to heaven or is it my
ticket to jail?
Emilie followed him,just as naturally as if they were together
for the last one hundred years. Oh, this must be where he lives. Is
his room here? In the bar? It was at the top of the stairs above the
36

hotel bar. He took her in his arms at the bottom of the stairs and ran
his hands in her long hair, twisting it in his fingers and holding her
close. Oh God, I'm so happy. Her body trembled as she felt his
arms around her.
Her shampoo smelled clean and fresh like lemons as it mingled
with the stale smoke and beer that was floating on the breeze outside the bar. She smells so good, he thought, holding her tightly.
Taking the stairs two at time, he ran, hand in hand with Emilie.
The tingle of their touch electrified the air as he reached under the
mat for the key.
The dimness of the room was unnoticeable in the lights that
danced around their bodies. He left the lights off and the bit of
light that shone in the windows gave them a clear path to the room.
They stopped long enough to remove their shoes as they made
their way to the couch. Sam tossed the cushions on the floor and
pulled out the thin spring filled mattress. He attempted to straighten
the sheets and the one thin blanket crumpled from last nights sleep.
Damn, he thought, why didn't I make the bed proper. As Emilie
made her way to the bathroom, Sam nonchalantly tossed his shirt
to the chair across the room.
She turned the water on in the sink and let it run. The thoughts
of him knowing that she was sitting on the toilet made her blush.
She took her barrettes from her hair and loosely brushed it back
over her shoulders. Thoughts of forever drifted and mingled with
the fear that inched its way throughout her body.
Emilie returned to the room. She twisted her barrettes in her
right hand. Her fingers of her left hand twisted the curls of her hair
which draped down the front of her right breast. Sam took the
barrettes, set them on the table and took her in his arms. He held
her close to him with his right arm and gently rubbed her back. His
hand crept up towards the nape of her neck. His fingers slid down
over the curve of her buttocks.
A shiver ran through her as Sam caressed her behind. He nuzzled her hair and placed little kisses on her ear lobes and neck.
She's so young he thought and just as quickly let that thought drift
from his mind. He helped her remove her blouse and slide her skirt
over the gentle curves. Her skin tingled with every feathery kiss.
Emilie in tum let her fingers twine in Sam's hair and stood on
her tip toes to reach his full lips. Her fervent kisses, wet and biting,
37

Barbara-Helen Hill

Barbara-Helen Hill

left his lips and trailed down his neck to his chest. She was there
with him forever. Nipping his flesh she made her way to his nipples and took them between her lips and drew little circles around
each. Sam could no longer stand on his wobbly legs. They fell in
each others arms to the battered old couch that was now their
chariot.
It was now late afternoon. He thought of her and then his mind
flew to his job or the fact that he had walked out on it. What now?,
he thought as he reached across Emilie to grab a coke and take a
gulp. His palms were sweaty, and his hair all a tangle. Emilie lay
among the sheets, her hair tumbled over the pillow, like wisps of
dandelion fluff on the wind. Sam looked at her and thought of the
eiderdown that covered him as a child, how soft and warm that
was. He traced little trails over her arms and along her neck to her
breasts. He gently kissed each soft globe and cupped them softly
in his hands. His kisses ignited the flame that smouldered inside
her and she reached for him again.
Long into the evening they held each other. Gentle caresses
mingled with fiery branches; her passion unyielding and his stamina
spurred on by the drive to consume all of her. The lights of the
night danced across the walls as they made love.
As darkness fell, Sam and Emilie untangled themselves from
their euphoria. Heading for the shower Emilie asked herself - what
now? She was no longer a school girl. Sam sat, running his fingers
through his hair. What was next?
Emilie soaped herself and let the water rush over her head. His
shampoo smelled of tar, but she had no choice. Her hair clean and
her body tired and sore, she stepped from the shower and looked
for a clean towel. He had one towel and it lay in a heap on the
floor. She hung it over the shower curtain and thought of fixing the
place up. She would buy new towels and maybe some curtains for
the windows that overlooked the streets. Emilie put her jeans and
shirt on over the damp underclothes, and made her way into the
living room.
Sam glanced at her and smiled. He wrapped the sheet around
him, tucking it in toga style. He nuzzled her neck as he led her to
the door. Sam didn't speak, just kissed her and looked into her
eyes before opening the door for her. As she left the room, he locked
the door behind her and leaned against it. His stomach plopped to
the bottom of his feet. Had he made a mistake? It was too late now.
38

He had no job, and she was only sixteen. Sam knew the consequences.
Emilie danced on wings as she made her way down the stairs
and up the street to her home. She didn't think of her mom and dad
until she rounded the comer. She prepared herself for every answer to every question that they might throw at her. At the door her
mother looked at her and hugged her. Emilie felt the twinge, a
small spring coiled and unsprung. She stepped over the threshold
into the next level and never looked back.
Sam showered and dressed and made his way down the stairs.
He turned at the bottom of the steps and entered the bar. The smell
of stale smoke, and the sourness of spilled beer mixed with the
Dustbane attacked his nostrils. Country music droned from the neon
lit jukebox shoved against the wall. Sam ordered a draft and took a
gulp. The pungent taste couldn't remove the doubt that trickled
down his throat.
After hours of smoke, music and beer, Sam stumbled up the
stairs. He didn't flop on the bed as he had done in the past. He
grabbed his bag and tossed in his one clean change of clothes,
tooth brush, razor and comb. Sam knew he could buy whatever
else he needed in the next town. His trip down the road in a big rig
was his ticket to hauleeewood, and the life of perpetual freedom
that he craved.
It was dawn. Emilie rose from a troubled sleep and padded to
the bathroom for a shower. She dressed in her school clothes and
made her way down the stairs. Emilie stopped in the kitchen and
grabbed an apple. She wrote a note about some early school activity and left the house. Emilie bounced down the sidewalk towards
town.
Upon reaching the building she ran up the stairs. She took the
key from under the mat as Sam had done the day before. Emilie
entered the dim room on tip toes. She made her way towards the
bed. She felt for Sam. The bed was empty. Emilie stood, and turned
on the light. The bed was just as they had left it. Sam wasn't there.
Gone. The word 'NO' came to her lips along with thoughts of
'fool' and 'love'. Tears flowed down her cheeks to lips that just
yesterday had kissed and nibbled.
39

Dona F. Lewis

Barbara-Helen Hill

She made her way to the stairs. She remembered her mother
and the words that she had said over and over again. No one ever
takes anything from you. You are always in charge and you have
the choice to give something or not. If you give something away,
remember to give it with love. Have no regrets. And always be
proud of the gifts that you give. Though she was a woman in sorrow her thoughts were now on how to succeed. Her determination
showed in the sharp, steady steps that carried her to school. She
did not want to end up like the grandmothers, sitting at bingo, with
bitterness on her lips.
Emilie strolled into the school and went to her locker. She picked
up her books and walked in a deliberate step to her first class. This
was no longer a prison to contain her. This was a stepping stone to
the future. She knew in her heart that somewhere out there Sam
was waiting. He just didn't know it yet.

40

THE DANCE
Through the wind
across time
Strikingly fast...revealing his strength
defying Gods angels
Beneath the sea of clouds
Creeping, reaching, impellingly
Soaring his soul to mine
Muffled, "I shall have you"
The clouds cloak the sun's energy
and he has encased his presence inside of me
"The door has been opened"
What?
Unpleasantly clearer, "The door has opened"
And beneath it
Spilled out their cries of those who live with-in me
"Sh ... Sh"
"Come now, I am here"
The train has speeded up
And there are too many crying ... calling to me
I am less now
Parts filtering away
I plead with them
Come with me
Sensations of whispers
Caressingly... obsessed
I flow in silk ... of no colour
Turning swirling
Dancing enticingly
Leaving the ground
I enter the surge of the alluring presence
The sway of my silken gown connecting
To the blackness of his cape
Now united
Our dance has left the Lord behind
Shadows emerging from the cracks in the floor

41

DonaF Lewis

Dona F Lewis

Others from hell come out of the wall
Their forms materializing
Floating, dancing, bewitching
In a long ago familiarity
That I now remember so well
The ache becoming clearer
The rhythm magnetizing
The door has ... been opened!
Daddy is here
He has brought someone ... deeply felt... with him
My eyes burn from the wetness behind them
Could I walk away?
They have found the essence
To divide my soul
One is angry
Sapping it all

42

A String Around Their Fingers
No open doors
She tells him lets leave,
Take my hand, remember?
A broken film repeating
Must detach
Born of the same
Closer than most
Twins is what they call them
She sits in
On the whisper in his blue eye's
Painting the truth
With lightning's hand
Awakening her soul
And she knows that he is her right side
With out a sound
He is alone lost in his subconscious
Unaware that she is with him
Or is it that he is with her
A string
Around
Their
Fingers
Shaded from the sun
Sheltered from their mind
Priorities bubbling
Striking
One at a time
Exposing the circle that keeps them dormant
An unprotected
Obscure
Intensity
They must see
Unitedly
A time no-longer
But with
Them
43

Dona F lewis

Dona F lewis

Her Touch

Stone

I stand afflicted
Again
Time passes
Waiting for know-one
Move the darkness, Lord
Let me feel what I can only deny
I chase the realities
Of
My frame
Ancient history
I take her existing
Touch
Intimidated, and running
From what my life is
Focusing on
Parts ofme
Screaming
Liar
Spinning shelter
Colours
That are real
And others?
Each person has their own road, you must find yours
Yourself...to be free

A
House
Of
Stone
And she
Belongs
To
Me
Once again
Calling
Crying
I move in
And
Out
Of
The
House
Of
Stone

44

45

Dona F lewis

Dona F lewis

Sketchings

Always There

Holiday
Can you hear it?
A stream slowly weeping
Its swirl
Tearing at the center
Squeezing the soul
The waters flow is submissive
With composed sketchings
That she has not balanced yet

The cold has come again ... black
And I hear her
She is quieter now, still she is stronger than before
You have a choice and then there is no movement from my heart
Fight ... dare ... breath
The cold is callous
The black ... denyingly raven and there is no movement
And I call on the Lord
Solid, cold and black .. .it covers my right side
With three arms that entangle my courage
Must oppose
Or
Utter
Goodbye

46

47

:1,
Ji

Raven Hail

Raven Hail

Cherokee Wisdom: Balance the Earth
The very essence of Life is the continual balance between the
polarities of the universe. Such polarities include positive and negative, good and evil, love and fear, yin and yang, spirit and matter,
day and night, joy and sorrow, dominance and submission----male
and female.
These apparent "opposites" are in truth only the two halves
that make one whole, this whole being the total experience of life.
They do not, as they appear, work against each other, but in fact
complement each other. If you doubt this, try connecting only the
positive wire to your electric lamp and see if the light comes on.
Or, even more important, what would be the future of our race if
all the men returned to Mars (where a current best-selling book
says they are from)----or just women went to Venus?
Any attempt to avoid the struggle for balance leads to nothingness; it is the balance of these dual polarities that brings about the
harmony of the universe.
The Cherokee Woman at the time of the discovery of The
Americas had more rights and privileges than the married woman
of Turtle Island today. Women not only owned the property, participated in both the fighting of Wars and the Councils of War, but
also sat with the Civil Councils of Peace. Lineage was traced
through her Clan. Upon marriage, the new husband was expected
to live with the Clan of his wife. To get a divorce, the wife simply
put the husband's personal belongings outside the door of the lodge.
There were no legal entanglements over the division of property or
the custody of children, for all the property of any value already
belonged to her, and the children belonged to her Clan. The husband belonged to another Clan; he wasn't even a blood relation!
This was not the "petticoat government" that some enterprising journalist dubbed it in those times; it was a balanced male/
female culture where each one knew his/her privileges and responsibilities, and where equality of the sexes did not mean that they
were cloned copies of each other.
Then along came the White Man with his Great White Father
Paternalism and reduced the Cherokee Woman to the passive role
of procreation. For the White Woman of that time was in the posi48

t

tion of a submissive, economically deprived wife, under the aggressive dictatorship of her husband.
.
.
The imbalance in the male and female roles came mto bemg
with the shift from rural-tribal to urban-mechanized living conditions in the Old World some centuries ago. It represented a moving
away from the feminine characteristics of nature, spirit, mystery
and the arts; and toward the masculine characteristics of war, power,
material possessions and mechanization.
Women of today have come a long way toward their rightful
place in the sun, but have not yet reached the position of the
Cherokee Woman at The Time of Discovery.
Astrologers tell us we have arrived at the Age of Aquarius; the
Metaphysicists say that the Harmonic Convergence ushered in a
new and enlightened era; the Hopi Indian calendar indicates that
the Fourth World is nearing the shift into the Fifth World; the ancient Aztec Calendar reveals that the Fifth World is near its conclusion and the Sixth World is imminent. Cherokees say the Fourth
or Fifth World count makes no never mind nohow, for time is cyclical and the Worlds follow each other around the circle in perpetuity (that's forever).
Psychics such as Ruth Montgomery and the late Edgar Cayce
predict a global upset before the tum of the century. Even the wo~an
in the street can plainly see that Women's Rights are progressmg
upward and onward, so far in a somewhat bloodless revolution.
It is to be hoped that any or all of these changes will be on a
consciousness plane instead of physical cataclysm. And that the
Women's Movement does not mean that women are merely taking
on the characteristics of men, but that they will bring the male/
female polarity into balance.

l

'I,

49

Randy Lundy

Randy Lundy

Road Allowance

My Lodge

The bulldozers came with angry voices
shouting for old bones to lay silent
absolutely still. By this time
the living had been relocated
toe tapping and fiddle music
replaced by the crunch of gravel
beneath steel-toed workboots.
So you were patient.

This will be my lodge
skin stretched tight over bone.
This I will call my home
sacred place I cannot leave.
No light visits me here
the darkness thick
with hot, stone-breath.
Moonlight beats
in the ear of the world.
Stars wonder
where I have gone.
Trees lean listening.
My soft voice centered
rises and falls
with the wind.

Now the job is done. The new highway paved
flat and black as the night
and silence has made you
restless. As occasional cars pass unaware
green fingers push cracks into the certainty
reaching toward the hum of tires
the breathing of sleeping children
the weary conversation of travellers.

50

51

Blue Heron (Jose Garza)

Blue Heron (Jose Garza)

Native Reality #2
(for Nora Chapa Mendoza)
Dear Coahuilteca Elder,
woman of spirit and wisdom,
With the sincere hope that Pachamama continue to protect and
provide for you, with wishes for peace, good health and lightness
of heart, I send you these words.
The traditional altar we erected at Casa De Unidad in Detroit
for Dia De Los Muertos (Day of the Dead) celebration was criticized by an 'art expert' from the other culture. He said the red
metallic paper we used was out of place next to the natural and
found objects of the altar. He acted as though it was his culture that
was being misrepresented. I tried to explain to him, Nora, that the
metallic paper reflects light better than paint and how we could not
paint the floor in front of the altar where the red paper lay. I explained to him that paper (and paint) is the solid material form
through which symbolism passes on its way to gaining power and
expression. Everything used in the altar comes from the same earth
that gave them all birth. Red is a colour that can assume diverse
forms and textures. The Red Road Path of our ancestors, which is
what the red paper represented, often narrows to the point of disappearing and becoming invisible to the naked eye, yet it remains
as witness to the truth of the red sun and blood that course through
our veins.
The 'art critic' did not understand how we were forced to accept, borrow or liberate the symbols of the oppressor in defence of
our way of life, our homes and our people. Often we wore the
enemies clothing and personal belongings to take their power and
absorb it into our own to make ourselves strong. We took their
foreign religion and gave it our own shape. We transformed many
of their symbols from negative cycles into positive life-giving protection. We continue to believe in a Great Mystery that is beyond
human description.
We agreed to construct the altar in order to reclaim the Indian
holiday and to honour our deceased relatives and friends. It was
52

done in solemn acceptance of death as an integral part of life, free
from morbid fear, yet respectful of deaths immense power. We teach
our children not to fear the inevitable but rather to prepare for it by
living a good life. I wonder if our critic friend was disappointed
not to find human fingers and hearts piled on the altar mantel. Maybe
we should have asked him to sacrifice himself for the sake of art
and his concept of reality.
Maestra Nora, we are descendants from the same humble Nahua
mountain culture of the Chichimeca north. We originate from the
same soil shared by the Lipan Apache, Yaqui, Karankawa
and Coahuilteca religions of the Sun, simple and beautiful beyond
description. Our Indio-Mexican Moon into being. Ollin is the
invisible glue that binds all things to one another. Our kin are the
Villistas, Farm workers, Chicanos and Spaniards. Our extended
family reaches far to the north and south of this wondrous Indian
continent.
We have seen and done much. Many words have passed between us and we have known one another a long time. Although
separated by many miles in distance our thoughts meshed and choice
of colours matched so easily to bring the altar to life. I look forward to seeing you again soon. It was an honour to have worked
and shared with you. Please accept this humble writing and a handful of Tobacco given with deep respect and thankfulness.

53

A. Rodney Bobiwash

A. Rodney Bobiwash

New Mexico

Tonina

Quarter moon
with her back
turned to the wind.

"Love is spontaneous firing
of two spirits simultaneously engaged
in the autonomous act of growing up"
- Durrell

Dine silver gleams
on black velvet.
Santa Fe
Indian market.
Shiprock leans into the wind
a ghost
before the Spanish Main
and galleons filled with pirates
and priests with hearts as hard
as gold.
Grandma Begay
tours the bars
kerchief frail
turquoise on her arms
"Do you wanna buy some silver?"
Dust devils dance
the never ending song of change
sand scattered and arranged
in bands
red, grey and brown
the healing
whorl of time.

54

Sitting alone
in the Bytown theatre
shoulders
hunching in
I sink into my seat
arms gathered like wings
pulling all the edges,
the rough parts in,
smooth surface to the world
eyebrows furrowed
lips compressed
I realize
I'm
mimicking your stance
and in a second
unconscious becomes caught
struggling
in spider cords
stretched tight.
I feel at
any moment
Satori
might come
kicking down
my door.

55

Melvina Mack

Melvina Mack

yes and
even become the space
'tween the whale and her
element

veil of timelessness
if
if I could lift
the delicate veil
and step in time
with timelessness
i would
but i am i
and you
feel the wall
of the labyrinth
with hands with eyes that fear suspect
seek the distance
laced in sleep

breathe
breathe deep
yes yes relax
that space
at the top
and at the bottom
of the breath
there yes
come
come lets dance
through the veil
'ts okay 'ts okay 'ts okay

yes
if i could
i would
dance barefoot
on the breath of a lady slipper
even become the heartbeat
of a panther
giving
shape
to the darkest
night

56

57

Myles MacMillan

Myles MacMillan

Lysol
You walk by the park bench
bleary eyed

Only buffalo I ever saw
was the stuffed head on the pawnshop wall
where I got eleven bucks for my jacket that one winter
(Frank's one of those guys'll go out of his way to help you out of
a bind)

smell of Indian funk

I choose the pain the hurt the snakes on the detox wall
or so I'm told

Just like me 'cept
you wear your pain like a badge of honour

Everyday I create myself
within my barbed despair

It is pain isn't it?

I fan the cinders

Trying to forget, trying to fit
trying to give a shit

Hey where you from?
Hey where you going?
Hey fuck you.

The dance of powwows past
spit running down your chin
The real reason? You want the real reason?
The reason is I won't give in.
Someone told me that our alcoholism
was the longest ongoing protest against colonialization
someone else told me their brother committed suicide
I watched my granny's face
eaten up by cancer
I heard the owl call my name so many times
I went deaf in one ear
or maybe that happened when I fell outside the priest's house
too drunk to catch my fall

58

59

Myles MacMillan

Myles MacMillan

gone

forever

John
Today I thought that one day I would dedicate something to

A young man with dreams and hopes
A young man faced with enormous obstacles

you, that big story of our lives that I will one day write,
retelling on its pages all the tragic pain and hurt and sorry
we carried around for all those many years.

because ...
just because ...

I thought I'd dedicate my autobiography to you,

A young man who found the shouldered responsibility of

that I will one day write
chronicling between the covers
the too much shit and pain I've waded through
and the gift of healing I've found in these later years
(and how sorry I am that I can't know you now,
when I should be better able to hold your hurt and pain)

just being so enormous
that at times it broke your heart
into so many pieces that eventually you couldn't mend it.

I thought I'd say somewhere in the margin
I thought I'd place on the first page of the book
how I would have burned sweetgrass with you

Dedicated to the memory of John Karl
or

and smudged you when you felt lost to yourself
and folded you in my arms and prayed for you from deep within
me

To John
or

Dedicated to the memory of my brother.

I'd mention the hurt and pain of being a child from an abused
home you carried through your life
How jail became a right of passage
(we all came to share)

I don't know when it'll get written but I want you to know that I

will have written chapters on you

Passage
into

on all you are to me,
of all we shared together
and all we should have shared together
and the lasting mark you left on my life

powerlessness
and
not realizing

My 11 months younger brother

why
we

60

61

Myles MacMillan

KateriDamm

were
(powerless that is)
I would mention how I would like to have you here
to hold and cry and hold you and cry and hold you and

never
let you go away again
I didn't realize your pain was so deep
that time we went on that three day drunk to Calgary
I thought you were stronger than that
I thought it fit into a bigger picture for you like it did for me

When I spoke at your funeral all those words about being
someplace better now,
somehow freer
I meant it
I do believe that you went away to prepare a way for me
so I wouldn't be scared when its my turn
or when those we love
are gone but
I still want you back.

62

The Blackbird Cage
There is a cage in a sunlit room. A bird sleeps. A songless bird.
In a cage covered with cotton.
The cage is round. There is no beginning, no end. This cage is
a trap. This cage is a door. A trapdoor to freedom. Freedom wriggles and spirals and stretches like a child, for that is its nature.
In another room, breath is drawn. In this other room, dreams
come fast and easy to those who sleep. The dreams are of rocks
and shells, feathers and tongues, skies and wings. They are of the
long ago and the yet to come. They are of bones and seed, icicles
and leaves, the spirit moon, heart-berry moon and a bear standing
in the late snows of spring.
The silence will end when the dreamer awakes and the cage is
opened.
I was sitting at my desk making plans to visit my sister and her
newborn son when the phone rang.
'Hi, Keesic.' There was no lilt in her voice, just a simple statement of acknowledgement.
'What's wrong?' My sister never called me by my full name
unless she had something serious to discuss. And since we joked
the most when all was well, serious tended not to be good.
'What's wrong?' more frantic now, fear gathering in a lump in
the throat.
'Ma said I should call.' She paused briefly. 'Gran had another
heart attack.'
There was a long pause, neither of us wanting the words to
make our fears true.
'She's dying.'
The trip was a blur. No thoughts, no images are retrievable.
Except me. One before the trip began. Except for the moment before leaving when I stood across from Robby, my supervisor. And
the image of her face hangs clearly in my mind. A round face,
blanching slightly, brown eyes floating, then lips moving. And thin
sound of her voice, struggling to escape from its throat, cracking
notes of assent.
Running through the halls of the hospital six hours later. Finding no one. Awash in a strange silence. Dread, unacknowledged,
63

-

KateriDamm

Kateri Damm

growing inside. Moving down corridors. Finally, my sister's room.
And my father sitting by the window reading the newspaper.
I stood staring in his direction and he looked from behind the
paper, snapping and folding it in his lap.
'I can't find anyone. I can't find ... '
'They're at Aunt Lila's. Mom too.'
'But... Gran?' knowing the answer but refusing to believe it,
ignoring what I knew and asking the question with an odd innocence.
'She's gone.' Just that, 'she's gone' and picking up the paper.
Just that and I am left standing, clutched in the steel grip of a monstrous grief, unable to move legs or arms or eyes or mouth. Just
standing immobile, tears splashing through gravity, like a salty river
moving of its own accord down the banks of my face.
'Go look for Darlene. Go look for your sister.' His arms still
holding the newspaper.
I move instinctively, moving across surfaces, between walls,
without thinking. As if a wire had become disconnected. I saw but
dido 't recognize. Doors, walls, signs, elevators, nurses, people carrying flowers and pushing I.V. 's down corridors. My feet knew
where to walk and somewhere in my brain the signs were deciphered. Somehow I did not slam into walls or walk over people or
trip on my own feet. But I could not have named one thing, not one
item or one letter. I could not have looked down and thought "foot"
or "shoe". I saw and moved on instinct, not understanding.
And there I was at the glass window where the newborn are
displayed.
Darlene came walking out the door from the room where the
babies are fed. I turned to her, arms hanging as if my hands were
weights, and she put her arm around my shoulder and walked me
back to her room.
I had seen the latter stages of dying though I'd never witnessed
death itself. My great Aunt Kayla sprang straight up in bed, her
mouth opening and closing uncontrollably, eyes wide open seeing
nothing in the room. And I knew I would never see her again.
The experience was poignant and brief and in some unaccountable way, natural and life affirming. My father's death was long
and numbing. He never trusted doctors, hated blood, they found
the cancer. Too late. Within two months he was a witness of who
he had been. He was in and out of hospital. His hair fell out and

eventually he was unable to walk upstairs unassisted. With all the
desperation of medical science, they hacked him apart and we
watched him disappear bit by bit. He spent the days and nights on
a borrowed hospital bed in the living room. His temper, which had
never been good, became a seesaw of saintliness and rage. Then,
after one particularly painfilled and irksome evening, he suffered a
stroke and the left side of his face slipped loose. After that he refused to look at himself in a mirror. Saliva gathered and dripped
from the left side of his mouth and his words were limp and slid
together into a series of grunts and groans. He rarely slept. When
he did, he dreamed of birds clawing their way out of his chest and
he'd wake up screaming and moaning. In fits of frustration and
anger, he began hurling anything within reach at anyone within
range. That practise stopped soon enough though, when the pain
worsened and we had to give him morphine to keep him from
screaming night day.
When he died I was in town buying groceries. When I returned,
Darlene, Aunt Lila and Mom were seated around his bed. Mom
was holding his hand and an air of peaceful calm suffused the place.
And I felt, I knew without asking, that the pain and suffering had
ended for everyone in the room.
Dad's eyes had been closed and, laying there surrounded by
family, he looked relaxed and strangely healthy. I realized then
how the pain had stretched a mask of disease across his face and,
now that it was lifted, how terrible and solemn it had been. His
spirit had attained freedom and in that freedom had shaken loose
the body. Without the spirit, the body ceased struggling. Without
struggle, the mask came unhinged and disappeared. As I stood
touching my mother's shoulder it occurred to me that the illness
had been overcome after all: he was free at last.
Gerry is the only man I've ever loved.
We met at a dinner at his parents' home one early spring evening.
His mother had become a fast friend after coming to my aid at a
poetry reading. Two Greedy Minds had been circling, quizzing me
about life on the reserve, Native spirituality, the appropriation of
Native stories, land claims the rights of sportsfishermen versus
Native fishing right... I tried, politely at first, to extricate myself.
Then I exuded an intense disinterest that bordered on deafness. I
openly daydreamed. Imagined myself becoming birdwoman, dart-

64

65

--Kateri Damm

Kateri Damm

ing and circling to freedom. To no avail. One persistent, bright
eyed university student continued asking about sweatlodges and
potlatches while regaling me with stories of her various brushes
with spirituality. All with the kind of open faced wonder that could
drive a pacifist to throw punches. She stared, hanging on my every
word and gesture. My hand was a clenched fist. Barking in my
other ear like a dog chasing his own tail, was a plain, fifty something man with a greying beard and balding head. Like all the worst
ones, he started out chatting about this and that "Indian" friend of
his b_efore launching a tirade about tax breaks and gun wielding
warriors.
Caught between the two, I was about to step back and knock
their heads together, very hard, when a woman grabbed me by the
elbow, saying very sweetly as she hurried me towards the door,
'we'd like to say it's been a pleasure ... but it hasn't.'
We left, politely nodding and smiling right and left.
Outside, we walked without talking. The air was as cold as
knives in our lungs and we slowed, pulling our scarves over our
mouths. At the street light, she turned to me. 'I'm Joan. Hi.'
'Hi.'
'Tough room.'
'No worse than most, I guess.'
'Scary thought!' We laughed together and I knew then that we
would be friends. We spent the next three hours in a diner, drinking tea and talking about our work. Joan was also a writer, also
Anishnawbe, and on a book tour for her latest novel. I should have
been both embarrassed for not recognizing her and humbled that
she had come to my reading. But, oddly, I felt neither embarrassed
nor humbled. I felt at ease, as if we had been friends for a lifetime
and there was no need for such an undercurrent of pride.
Gerry came to the dinner late, with a young, slightly drunk
woman hanging on his arm. He grinned and shook my hand warmly,
reciting a couple of lines from one of my poems as he did so. We
chatted amicably for a few minutes before the meal was served
and shortly afterward he and his friend shouted their goodbyes
from the foyer and left, laughing and slamming the door behind.
I bumped into him several times during my visit, always shar66

ing a smile and small talk. A kind of friendly disinterest characterized all of these meetings.
When I was a child of seven or eight, I found a blackbird injured at the foot of the glass doors of Gran's sleeping cabin. And I
borrowed Grannie's old bird cage and placed the bird inside. Within
a few hours the bird was sitting up, looking around curiously. But
I was afraid he hadn't fully recovered. I was afraid to release him
in the dark, on such a cool night. Instead, I put a margarine dish of
water and some sunflower seeds inside and covered the cage with
a piece of white cotton. Then I went to bed happily, dreaming about
how Bird would sing in the morning. And when he was completely
healed, I would release him. Oh, how he would circle around my
head in thankfulness, how he would dip and dive in his unfettered
joy at being saved. And though he was free, Bird would stay with
me from then on. He would sit on my bedroom windowsill, chattering secrets in birdtalk.
Early the next morning, as sun streamed through the window, I
anxiously lifted the cotton. Bird's dead eyes stared up at me from
the bottom of the shining chrome cage.
Gerry has the eyes the colour of a late winter afternoon sky. A
deep vibrant blue-black, warm and penetrating. My German father
had blue eyes but they were implacable, like pools of cold water.
And he could hide his emotion easily beneath their cool surface.
Gerry's eyes were filled with shadows and valleys, fierce storms
and gentle rain, midnight skies and the soft hues of dawn. When I
looked into their changing colours, it was as if I could see everything he was thinking and feeling. And the first time I kissed him,
it was his eyes that had drawn me in.
And from that moment, I fell into him with abandon.
A room, pale yellow and shining. Rows of sunlight through
slats reflect on chrome. There is a disturbing lack of depth. Everything is flat, white, bright, antiseptic.
There is another room within the room. A place where dreams
have space. A place for real living.
Whispers leak around the pale yellow room. Hissing, shifting,
shuffling, Bodies under bright with cotton. There is no screaming
that can be heard.
Our coming together was like glancing up and seeing a sky
filled with falling stars. In a dark room with the tea kettle bubbling, we touch unexpectedly, accidentally almost. And there was
67

-Katen·Damm

Katen" Damm

a moment when our eyes widened. As ifto say, who are we? Who
is this 'we' that two people become, who this 'us?' And I looked
into his eyes and I kissed him full on the mouth, swallowing his
words. Then tongues meeting, probing, loving, a new language
was born. A language like all language and unlike any other, unlike any we had ever known. Tongues pressed against teeth, lips
against lips, creating the sound of this language, the lilt and pattern
of it, the glottals and sibilance. Together, with the kettle steaming
and shouting behind us, we became the grammar and expression
of this language. And through us punctuation and diction arose. A
lexicon was created. And spirit pervaded the language.
Geny gave me gifts collected on the beach down the road from
his mother's home. Every night I would find a shell, a stone, a
feather on my pillow and every morning I would awaken with new
eyes, new ears, and a full heart. So it was that meaning was conveyed and understood and gained depth.
And his mother was a quiet observer to what we were becoming. Without intention, she became the ears to our mouths and
tongues, the listener who realized the sound. Without her, it is possible we might have slipped into another world, the world of dreams
and spirits, and forgotten our way back to the threshold. We might
have slipped and never found life in this world of earth and sky.
This world where babies suckle their mothers' breasts and the forest hums the energy between the trees. This world of our waking
existence.
A screaming bird battering itself against gleaming bars. A black
bird crying in a cage of bloody, hacked off beaks.
I am sitting in the living room of our home. Geny enters, cold
and sweating. Before I can speak he collapses at my feet.
Since I have seen his eyes, through a mask of pain, struggling
to give expression to this thing. To find words for what can not yet
be understood. Since then I have held him through long nights in
strange cold rooms. And held his head, stroking his sweat slicked
hair, as he retched and shivered.
Sitting on plastic chairs, I have waited, I have waited. I have
listened to the odd echo of heels clicking on tile, my ankles absorbing the coldness. I have seen images of bone. Images of heart
and breath and stone. I have watched an image of heart and breath,
rising and falling, rising and falling. The heartbeat an unsettling
beep and silence, beep and silence. I have surrendered my dreams

to a thin green line.
Between visits to this cold bright place, we lived happily. But
as this thing grew and Geny weakened, a terror intensified. And
the time between folded back on itself. Then the cold place became home and home, the visiting place.
There is a figure of a man. A silhouette on snow. Snow and sun
and a solitary man stumbling.
Snow blindness. Eyes burn and water. Brightness blinding
whiteness. Snow and sun and a solitary man stumbling.
The barrens. No beginning, no end in sight. A circle of white.
Snow and sun and a solitary man stumbling.
I could not bear to look in Geny's eyes then. Could not bear it
in the yellow room where more and more days and nights were
spent. Could not bear it in the living room. Could not bear it in the
bedroom. For the first time, I began to close my eyes when we
kissed. And a silence rooted itself in our tongue.
So for a time, a space grew and it was you and I, he and I again.
And a new mask was fashioned for each. Gerty's mask was a thin
transparency that exposed and highlighted his eyes and mouth. Mine
covered my eyes and ears. This is how we might have continued in
freezing, quiet desperation.
Then one day, Geny fell on the hard, white tile, knocking the
masks loose. And in that instant I saw a blackbird stand in the
comer of his eye.
There is a child, waiting to be born. And Geny and I weep
together, our hands encircling my already swollen belly. We have
remembered our reason for being and the tears are a language all
their own. Translation is inept.
When our tears have said all that can be said, I whisper to Gerry
in the language we have come to speak fluently. His eyes are beautiful oratory of understanding. Now, again, Joan is our ears. Now,
she has become paper on which our words are written.
As prayers are recited, family gathers. So the ceremony begins
and ends and continues in a circle of language.
I open the cage door.
This story is dedicated with love to all free birds, especially
Rangi Chadwick.

68

69

I

.t

,I

Alteration

Henry Michel

The Rise & Fall Everlasting
1

Coyoti ran all through this one, I can tell
He stopped here left his mark there
Trotted, Coyoti speed that is, over to here
he may have laid down for a while there
His marks are all over this place.
2

What wasn't said during last nites skirmish
was that the words fired back and forth
in blind artistic fury were fully loaded.
Each ballistic babble carrying a payload of armour piercing
syllables with megatons of force.
How any soul could walk away from such a
verbling inferno defies logic.
3
The piercing gaze of emotion drips thickly from your eyes,
I only feel the heat of your emotion,
only can answer each furied thrust with one of my own,
The boil of two bodies so intense with finding
the core of each other only pales in the desire
of your eyes.
4

He didn't have to bring the salmon back for the people,
Coyoti, that is.
He didn't have to free the children from Owl woman
and I wonder why he tricked mosquito into tearing
himself into those millions of harmless bites.
Just imagine the enormity of Coyoti's steps.

73

Henry Michel

Henry Michel

5
A wh~sper a sigh a light brushing of lips to skin,
the glmt of tooth polished smile a shiver of
uncertainty at the height of loving. The rise
& fall everlasting.
6

I wonder if Coyoti came because of love
or love because of Coyoti.
He was here though cause he left his marks.

74

About Leukaemia
for Ellen & Jeremiah
She reaches into the little boy's body
deep inside she reaches deep into the pain and finds joy
she reaches deeply into the past
she reaches for the joys of the healthy places
she reaches for the joys of love
the joys of love she reaches
Coyoti must have made a mistake here too
maybe he fell asleep again in that place
but fox will wake him up soon
That's okay if the blood is tainted because
he left that part with her
and she reaches deeply inside the boy
for life ... for love.
Coyoti knows ...

75

--Tiffany Midge

Ttffany Midge

Pieces of Glass Resembling a Human Heart
Blue Reservation mornings,

I am recovered by sobbing explosions--whiny country chords
of Garth Brooks which Cousin Cookie has detonated in the livingroom.
She keeps the volume at maximum while she pieces together
star-quilts
or restores rodeo-dud-fabric in her yellow sewing room down the
hall.
An expert seamstress, she handiworks the prom gowns for the
female student body at Popular High. She draws her own patterns,
designs
her own rhythms. You could give her any page from the formal
section in the Sears Catalogue and she'd sew it by heart. Her mind's
eye is a charmed needle--her slim fingers remnants of stained satin
or silk.
Blue Reservation nights

Alice Bought-Plenty arrives to the house delivering years of
regret.
Her shoulders sag from balancing buckets of accumulated tears.
Her mother's tears, her grandmother's tears, her sister's tears,

1-900-Deliver Me

Glenda, my psychic friend from the psychic friend
hotline delivers a message
in cryptic detail-a tree falls in the forest,
a woman in Iowa stirs lime flavored jello,
a schoolboy in France eggs a nun,
a thunderstorm breaks out in the Himalayas-Three dollars a minute and all I get is static interference.

***
Browsing the yellow pages I came across a ~elivery sen:ice ~hat
promises redemption. I order a life to go with pepperom,, ohv~s
and a happy ending. It's been well over twenty years, and I m still
waiting.

***

The only thing I'm sure of is that I'm not sure of anything.

--Anything else?
Yes someday you will probably die.
'
. ?
--Is that just another empty promise·
I'm not sure.

***

My life is an excerpt from Waiting for Godot: only more surreal
and more vague.

her own tears. Her broken heart is a country and western ballad
ripped, mangled and tom beyond recognition. She throws the shards
at Cookie's feet.
Cookie gathers the fragments patiently, tenderly, as if she's collecting fragile
and valuable pieces of glass. Alice stands waiting at the door while
Cookie repairs her damaged heart. With surgical grace Cookie
bastes the brittle splinters using her own regretful years as a guide.
She stitches Alice's heart with ancient
strands of her grandmother's hair. The needles she uses are slivers
of her children's bones. She knots the ends of the threads with
mercy, with blood. The vessels are secure, the chambers sealed.
Pain cannot arrive if it hasn 1 a place to sleep.
76

***

***

Ifyou empty your mind, they will come.
Who will come?

If you open your heart, they will come.
Who will come?

If you forgive your enemies, they will come.
Who will come?
Please deposit a pint of blood and stay on the line.

***
The TV evangelist suggested I cleanse my soul, but I accide~tly
used too much bleach and now I have no hope of ever recovenng
from it.

***
77

Tiffany Midge

I'!ffany Midge

I placed an ad in the personal columns.
Wanted: Spirit Animal-Coyote responded, said he was everything
I'd ever wanted and possibly more-but later he confessed he was afraid
of making commitments.
Every animal I've ever known has been a trickster.

***

~fl wanted I could walk the Red Road: only I keep getting hung up
m traffic.

***

The medicine man told me that my totem was an eagle. You could
say I purchased an Eagle Vision, fully loaded in 36 EZ installments.

***

"I found salvation in Thunderbird wine." The drunk at the pier
tells me.
"I woke up and saw the face of an angel." The nameless woman
cried.
"I looked to the grey grey sky and Christ was crying!" Mavis
June testified.
Is it possible to be blinded by a vision?

Someone told me they bought a Plymouth Sundance. I asked why
they hadn't purchased a Buick Baptism or a Ford Communion instead.
***
I wanted to write a letter to Galileo, only the Post Office refused to
deliver it. But somehow I think he got the message because the
next time I looked into the night's sky, I noticed the Big Dipper
was shaped like a question mark.

***
Define irony in twenty words or less:
Irony is when an ice-princess and a proud Indian nation both carry
on, in spite of wounded knees.
***
As the legend goes, Joan of Arc and Brown Weasel Woman both
received visions from spirits to dress as men and prove themselves
as warriors. The tragic difference, one found death in battle and
the other was burned alive.
***
I couldn't make the monthly payments, so my Eagle Vision was repossessed.

***
Si~ting_ Bui! was a Taurus. Custer was a Cancer. Glenda my psychic fnend mforrns me that this is essentially the reason they didn't
get along.
***
Shirley McLaine answered my fan letter. I asked why it was that
when the spirits appear to me, they are always laughing? She wrote
back, that they were probably watching the re-runs of my life. How
can I make them stop? I asked. Did you try switching channels?
***
At the annual powwow at Daybreak Star
I purchased a dream catcher from
Wasicu Indian Jewelry.
Minding the directions I hung
it over my bed
and have had nightmares
ever since.

***
78

79

Tiffany Midge

Tiffany Midge

Ode to the Horse Powered Engine
"If one were only an Indian, instantly alert, and on a racing horse,
leaning against the wind, kept on quivering jerkily over the quivering ground, until one shed ones spurs.for there needed no spurs,
threw away the reins, for there needed no reins, and hardly saw
that the land before one was a smoothly shorn heath when horses
neck and head would be already gone. "---The Wish to be a Red
Indian, Franz Kafka

1.

Before chrome pistons, crank shafts and cruise control,
there were stallions, palominos and pintos.
Before asphalt, carpool lanes and expressways,
there were open plains, prairies and sage bowl landscapes.
Somebody's vision of power was ignited-a new mode of transport was bred,
and a future designed by genius was born.

2.
We used to live next door to a junkyard
guarded by a German shepard named Puppet.
It was strewn with the motor innards of dead cars,
a trash heap of failed metal organs and stale
powerless dreams. On the other side
of us was a field of horses. They stood
all day grazing on buttercups, meadow grass
and the crab apples fallen from nearby trees.
Beauty raced with them. Their bodies were
the carved muscle of a god's extravagant whim,
magnificent packaged flesh of a vision gone to pasture.

3.
I'd like to believe that the plains Indians
invented horses. That those herds of sprinting
hooves were created by the medicine
of some warrior's nightmare-- some
80

holy man's vision of tomorrow. I'~ also
like to believe in Pegasus and Umcorns.

4.

1 once dreamed of travelling with a caravan
of mystic gypsies. They didn't own fingers,
but two-forked appendages for hands.
They loved gold, red wine and laughter. .
They created fire from their supply of magi~
crystals. Nights found them ~n a furious whirl
of dancing and singing. Their wagons
were pulled by a stock of proud centaurs.
One was fair with the face of a Roman
statue. Another was fiery black
with African features. After everyone
went to sleep--I stole them.
5.
Last March I purchased a car.
The auto dealer wore thick gold
chains and grinned at me with broken
and missing teeth. He sold discarded
engines, snake oil and firewater.
Revving the motor of a Dodge Colt
I heard the roar of 800 horses
trafficking across dust and ash
arriving to the other side of eternity.
"Got a lot of power, this one!"
he promoted. Next he showed
.
me a Ford Mustang. Except the engme
refused to turn over. All I could hear
was the echo of drums beating against
the generator. Finally I drove home
in an Escort Pony. We bartered
and made a good trade. The engine .
still runs, but I could have had somethmg
more powerful-- I could have had a V-8.

81

Tiffany Midge

Tiffany Midge

6.
Driving to the Park and Ride
on weekday mornings, I am greeted
by herds of horse powered engines
grazing on asphalt in the parking lot.
One morning I find that the herd has vanished,
and are replaced with Zulu trucks
and Masai sports sedans.
On the 6:00 news a coalition
of outraged consumers and civil
rights activist are suing
the auto industry. They win.
I don't know if I should laugh or cry.

7.
Some nights I am shaken
to consciousness by
turning dust. Hoof
prints lie scattered
across my bed-the now bare room
ofmy vision
reveals ghosts of equestrian
soldiers decorated
in sashes of scarlet
and helmets of frozen blue wind.
Their words are electric
forcing my will to surrender
from this nightmare.
Some dreams you never wake up from.

9.
The Monster Truck Rally
is coming to the King Dome.
That same weekend,
the gay rodeo is happening
in Enumclaw. Queers on steers-the poster read.
I can't decide which to attend,
so I stay home and watch
the 6:00 news. They're
broadcasting a story about crowds
of demonstrators and animal
rights activists opposing the gay rodeo.
One guy complains on camera
that the oppressed are oppressing.
Nobody is picketing the King Dome.
10.
On the Ponderosa, Little Joe
gets in a skirmish with some
horse thieves. Hoss and Adam
throw their two fists in the squabble,
the thieves go to jail and the show
has a happy ending. I switch
channels just in time to watch
Starsky and Hutch apprehend
a gangster for organized grand theft auto.
The show has a happy ending.
I'm still waiting for a happy ending.

·l!

"

)!

!.

8.
Some saying used to go-you are what you eat.
Now I hear-you are what you drive.
How will I explain to my future children,
the definition of irony?

82

I

83

Isabelle Louise Hill

Isabelle Louise Hill

accommodation in the school environment. Children with learning
disabilities, special needs, the gifted and the average student need
to be enticed with a variety of teaching strategies.

'Life Long Learning'
An age-old saying that has been on my mind a lot is "Life begins at forty". Why? Because I AM forty, going on forty-one.
When I think back on my life, I'd be considered a 'late-bloomer'.
In June 1995 I will be graduating, along with ten others, from an
intensive three-and-a-half year teaching program with a Bachelor
of General Studies degree. Seventeen years after completing high
school!

The curriculum has been meaningful and inspirational. The
unique history and culture of the aboriginal inhabitants has t? be
made known. All learners should be aware of the laws, pr~chces,
customs, obligations and responsibilities that govern the hves _of
the First Nations people. Keys to survival are consensus, t?e maintenance of territories and the organization of the people. This ~owledge and the newly-acquired skills will provide _a sound basis for
learning in all other subject areas and of other diverse cultures.

When I graduated from high school, I just turned twenty-three.
My classmates thought I was seventeen going on eighteen! I quit
school four years prior because I was failing Algebra 12 and had no
definite plans for the future.

Success is when your students are proud of themselves, of their
accomplishments and are applying their skills outside the classroom. With the help of the Elders and the community at large, the
school environment will be an important stepping stone to a ful-

After two years of University I still did not know what career to
pursue. At the age of twenty-five I got married and gave birth to a
son and later, a daughter. I worked as a short-order cook, a chambermaid, program coordinator for a drop-in centre, a hostel cook
and many years in the fish canneries before getting back into the
educational field.

filling life.

I always wish that I was brought up in our traditional society
where children started learning at a very young age. They listened
to the Elder 's stories and watched the older children. Throughout
their lives, they were guided cautiously and counselled wisely. As
young adults, they knew what their responsibilities and purpose in
life were.
Today I am almost at the height of my career. I am learning how
to speak my parent's tongue; I am a drummer, singer, and dancer in
a traditional dance group and soon I will be teaching in an elementary classroom!
As a First Nations educator, it is now my responsibility to encourage youngsters in their life-long learning process. In our modern and multicultural society, all learners merit respect and proper
84

85

i;

Isabelle Louise Hill

Isabelle Louise Hill

Assimilation or Acculturation?
_I'v~ ~een_ thin_kin~ about the changes that I have gone through
whtle hvmg m this city for the past thirty-seven years. My parents
moved from the village so that we could attend the city schools.
We we~e o~e o~ v~ry few First nations families that lived permanently m thi~ city m the late 1950's. While we were growing up,
my parents did not speak the language or share their cultural traditions.
I remember very little of elementary school. One bad experience that stands out in my mind was when the grade four teacher
yanked m~ out of my desk because I couldn't answer his question.
The only time that I felt really good was in grade six. I did a bit of
research on the Iroquois Nation in eastern Canada. The teacher
liked my report and asked me to share it with the class.
My brothers and sisters seemed to just drift through the ele~entary system. Out of our family of ten, only four completed
high school. Two of us pursued post-secondary education.

For thirty-five years of my life I was assimilated into the nonNative society. I knew and cared very little about my parents' mother
tongue and cultural backgrounds. As education became relevant to
me, I grew very excited about learning the languages and traditions of my people.
I see that I was deeply affected by the dominant society. As a
First Nations educator, I will turn the acculturation process around
by learning as much as I can about First Nations cultures and implementing this curriculum into the school district. The unique history and the diverse cultural backgrounds of the aboriginal inhabitants of this territory will be shared and experienced.
This goal is attainable because many First Nations people live
permanently in this city; almost fifty percent of the students in this
school district are of First Nations ancestry and it is a requirement
of the Language Education Policy from the Ministry of Education.
'Why wa'h!. .. which means "The time is right".

A couple of years of university study seemed irrelevant and a
waste of my time. After nine years of marriage and working at a
variety of menial jobs, I went back to school.
First I took a job re-entry program. Then I enrolled in a Business Management course. Finally, I was accepted into the Simon
Fraser University First Nations Language Teacher Education Program.
During that three-and-one-half years of study, I learned more
of my ~ultural background than I had in my whole life. Today I am
a funct10nal speaker of the Sm'algyax dialect; a singer, dancer and
drummer with a Kitkatla dance group and will soon be teaching in
an e~ementary ~l_assroom! I do a lot of research and am always
lookmg for excitmg teaching strategies to share with the children.

86

87

Brenda Prince

Brenda Prince

city slick her
scene in a supermarket

one thing
that scared
me as a child
were spirits
i knew i
was safe
surrounded
by concrete
because spirits
didn't care
to visit
the city
and i felt
secure under
my blankets
but now that
i'mgrown
it's those
same spirits
that keep me
away from
the city

I wait for a prescription
from the modern day medicine man
and gaze at the thousands of
remedies for everyday ailments
lining the shelves
I see you come
around the corner aisle
An old Native man
pushing a shopping cart
with six potatoes
in a plastic bag
I watch you go
around the other corner
and I have an overwhelming
urge to get up
and hug you
and tell you
I love you
Elder Native man
your humility is as honest
as six potatoes
in a plastic bag
We're both the same
people lost in fluorescent
hunting grounds
Would you think
I was drunk or stoned
ifl spoke what I felt
or would you understand?
So all I do is
sit and let this
warm sea wave engulf me
and I notice
I feel better already
88

89

Dawne Starfire

Strong Morning Sky

The Heart's Of Womyn

Dawne Starfire

Speaking from the heart now,
I must recognize the womyn and children everywhere,
Who have become the target of Canadian Government Policy,
Surviving for the day a part of our everyday struggle,
in a world structured on corporate greed,
They have poisoned our waters, leaving our children with
scabs all over their fragile bodies,
Creating a miserable society which our children question.
As they are not able to see their pain is not their mistake.
A constant reminder to us of the continued battle for the
generations ahead ofus and behind.
Speaking from our hearts we'll become strong,
listening to the pains of our children.
Healing our minds of colonial oppression,
connecting nation to nation.
Protecting our children,
defeating the enemy.
Together we are healing.
The hearts of womyn,
The way of our grandmothers,
Born of the earth,
The Trees, Sky, Water and Animals.
Our Mother The Earth The One Who Takes care Of Us.

Born for Strength
for Beauty and Light...
Born to hold Dreams
in the Silence of Night...
Born for Truth
and born to give Love ...
Born to Know Always
the Peace of the Dove ...
Born for Fire
and Visions Unseen ...
Born with a Wisdom
that surpasses all need ...
Born for Power
through Spiritual Rebirth ...
Born with a Song
that belongs to the Earth ...
Born as a Dancer
who answered the Call...
The Great Dance is Life
and she dances for All ...

90

91

Victoria Lena Manyarrows

Dawne Starfire

The Wind

Turn Of The Earth

I am the wind
that moves through
your being .. .

you look at me, but don't ask questions
take me for who i am at the moment
not prying deeper
not seeking answers
to questions you avoid
hesitant to ask, you are shy
a man who's been to war
and have renounced its evil
you live today
as if tomorrow will always be waiting

Sometimes ... A whirlwind ...
in constant motion ...
always touching
your soul...
but something you cannot hold
or contain .. .
Sometimes ... a hurricane
that tears at
your feelings ...
challenging
your beliefs ...
bruising you with
the force
of it's being .. .

taking your time, and not demanding changes
you understand that change happens
with every tum of the earth
every wind that blows
every flicker of candlelight
revolution is a natural occurrence
flowing from the sea, thru the earth
a volcano of change
shaking all cities
challenging our acceptance of unhappiness and destruction
and asking of us generosity
in a time of greed.

Sometimes ... a soft breeze
that moves across
the meadows
of your mind ...
lifting and changing
the shape
of your thoughts ...
you long yet for "stillness" ..
while the purpose
and the strength
of the wind
is in movement...
I cannot be
this thing that you ask ...
for the spirit of the wind
is in "motion" ...
and stillness
is its death ...
92

93

Victoria Lena Manyarrows

Victoria Lena Manyarrows

Spirit People
i 've seen your fires burning
and felt your flames
i've witnessed your anger
i've seen it attack children, women
chasing us into the dark, the trees
away from your guns and greed
into the dark, where it's safe
and the coyotes keep watch for strangers

spirit people we are
and within us lives life
breathes life
radiates life & love
giving life to the memory of those who came before us
and the spirit of those yet to come
from seven generations of blood and bone still with us
to seven generations of young ones, rising & rising & rising
spirit people we are

i've seen your anger
and felt your flames rising
i've witnessed your anger
searing & spreading
threatening me when i'm asleep
unaware of the danger that waits for me & my people
threateningbut i won't let your torches threaten me
i won't let you threaten my people
we have a place here
a meaning here
a reason to be
we relate a message of hope
and send out a message of love
understanding
compassion & peace
like flowers in spring
we search for the sun
opening & welcoming change
not allowing in anger & war
hate that harbours only hurt
hate that harbours only more hate
anxious to suffocate & suppress our spirit

94

95

Laurie Weahkee

Laurie Weahkee

Dialogue About Them
Check them out! What do you suppose we ought to do about them?
Who?
The New Age crazies.
Why should we do anything about them?
Well as an Indian person, don't you get offended by them?
Not really. I see them as really trying to be better people.
Yeah I suppose. I guess they probably have some unmet spiritual
needs, but I think they mostly have a lot of gall.

the secret code word and now the Native people are supposed to
let them in the club. I feel bad for the Lakotas and Dakotas and
whoever else addresses their Creator as Takashala. To have all these
weirdos trying to get in on what they perceive as the REAL spiritual ride to the heavens. You know, like they caught the Native
Bus to happy hunting grounds. It bothers me cause, I'm Dine,
Cochiti and Zuni not Lakota. It's like they're assuming all Indians
are the same and we're not. I don't know much about other peoples ceremonies and their relationships with the Spirit world. It's
not my place. There is stuff I couldn't ever know. And I don't
think that I would even want to know.
Why not? I mean if you had a chance to see/know the truth,
why wouldn't you want to know?
It's just that I don't think that because I get invited to another Peoples' ceremony that I have any rights to incorporate it into--more
like onto my side. It belongs to a people. It's their truth.

Yeah?
Yeah, I mean, Santa Fe is loaded with crazies. This is the place
~here some cross eyed white woman listed Shaman as her occupation on the cover of Times Magazine .. .! wanna know how much
for Shaman school and who accredits it.
So you think Native people have the market on spirituality eh?
No. Not even cl~se, which is precisely my point. Why do they
have to steal Native people ceremonies in order to be spiritual. It
really gets to me.
What do you find that is so offensive?
Oh, stuff like they'll be talking in their melodramatic voice about
?ow 'the spirits' c~me to visit them on their $1,000-week-end-spirttual-adventure with a woman named Clara Clearwater or something. You know like every time they talk about the Creator they
sa~ 'Takashala' and they look at you like you're supposed to have
this mutually deep identification and understanding. Like they spoke

96

Isn't Truth the same for everyone? Why wouldn't Truth be
Truth to everyone?

It should be, but it's not. There is always different perceptions of
the same truth. For example, we mostly can agree that entire tribes
were killed off and children were taken away from their homes
and made to speak another language, but they forget how recent
this took place. Like just because it doesn't seem so recent to them
that we should all get over it and move on. I think they forget that
millions of Native people died so that these ceremonies could continue. They don't even seem to care about the bitterness that our
peoples still suffer from. They're oblivious to the reasons we still
have that pain.
Well, I don't think that they don't care; it's probably that they
just don't know. We need to inform them. But it seems to me
that you're getting bent out of shape is sort of based on your
personal baggage. I mean first of all, don't you believe that
everyone is a spiritual being?

97

Laurie Weahkee

Laurie Weahkee

Of course-

them white trash sure do stink up the sweat lodge. Fucken white
trash.'

So are you saying that because the Newagers are lacking a cultural place and history they should not try to have their own
ceremonies?
All I'm saying is that they have no right to steal others ceremonies
cause they've misplaced theirs.
I really disagree with you. I think that wanting and needing
spirituality is just enough cause for the New Age movement.
Our present time and place is that there is a lot of people out
there who could use some spiritual guidance and help. They
need it, but even more... they want it. I believe that the holy
people will help them out and bless them if only for their sincere efforts. It's not fair to say that they've misplaced their
ceremonies and so therefore they're out of luck. What does
that say about other tribes that have lost their ceremonies? Do
we count them off of our official list of Indians?

No we don't. As far as I'm concerned, there is a big difference
between newagers and tribes who are struggling to retain their cultures. Native Nations have suffered genocide, theft, rape and thus
colonization of our peoples which has profoundly impacted our
young people. Yet we have collectively chosen to continue to believe in our traditional beliefs because we understand this as true.
Natural law has dictated the way our people think and live. The
cost to continue our beliefs has been tremendous. It's not like we
collectively decided that man was smarter and deserved to pervert
religion, natural law and disregard the collective rights and dignity
of humanity. Many newagers have never accepted that this is the
true history and there is a price that the collective has NOW to pay.
Personally, I've seen that many of them do not want to deal with
the day to day reality of homelessness, poverty and racism. They
just want us all to suddenly be friends and pray together. I refuse to
pray with people who are not willing to discuss and work against
colonization, racism, classism, or the theft of intellectual property.
And I'm not saying that they're the racist ones .. .I'm saying why
should they be shocked when our young people say stuff like 'Damn
98

Yeah, a lot of our people are racist. Which is precisely what
I've seen. I've seen many new agers live more true to the traditional ways than even Indian people. They don't litter or drink
excessively, and they really try to stay aware of the spirit world.
You know racism isn't part of our cultural heritage.
Yeah, I know that. And yeah it's true that a lot of times Newagers
are working to live true to traditional ways, but then sometimes I
get the feeling that it is a luxury thing for them. I mean, I don't
really know the percentages, but compare how many Newagers
have to deal with, alcoholism, commodities, poverty in economics
as well as education, etc. I don't mean this to be an excuse, it's just
a reality that many Indian communities are dealing with. We are
having to deal with issues of colonization.

Yeah, well, it's just that I've seen so many of our own young
people ignoring our Elders and goofing off in the community
meetings. Many of them don't believe in our ceremonies or
creation stories anymore.
Well, sometimes that is true. But I believe that this is why we have
to protect our cultures and ceremonies. What scares me is that we
have been taught to believe that our cultures are trivial and superstitious. The New Age movement hasn't helped change this perception. So many times I've seen the Newagers think that most of
our creation stories are to teach little children how to be nice. That
our stories are quaint and teach one moral per story. They don't
even know that some of these stories are about child abuse, sexual
abuse, spousal abuse etc .... but that we also have solution-ceremony.
The ancestors taught us how to heal our people according to the
local means available. For instance according to Dine stories,
Coyote is a holy person. He is beautiful, and he can be backward.
He is the first one to commit child abuse, yet he is still a holy
person. Because he found the way back to health and therefore has
given his people a chance for life again. In other cultures it is different animals that serve this role.
99

Laurie Weahkee

Laurie Weahkee

I'll tell you a true story. One time this one medicine man agreed to
help a group of New Age people thru a bad time. In the ceremony,
he was announcing which spirits had chosen to come and help.
Well, one of the spirits was the clowns, who do everything backward. He said "They've decided not to come in and bless this house.
They don't want to help and they are not going to help." Well,
everyone started to cry and say stuff like "I wish the clowns would
come and help. I wish they would see to it that they might bless us
and this house. We need them here to make us smile and laugh." I
was dying not to laugh. And I never tried to explain to them that
they were crying for nothing. If they wanted to have a Bozo the
Clown experience, then so be it. They were trying to equate their
own 'clown' experience into Native communities. They assumed
the history and place of the clowns and were really upset. It's their
problem.

People. Some have more of the culture intact than others. We had
to fight, plead, work, beg and die for it to continue. So how do the
Newagers even justify using the word Takashala--not knowing
the geography, customs, language and vision of the people. How?

But if they have no history or place what should they do? Where
should they go? How should they come to a place where they
can be? Most of these people you are talking about are genuinely good people. They love their children, and animals and
this is how it should be. They really want to help and to be
helped. I mean, there are a lot of them out there that follow the
Buddhist way of life. It seems to really help them. I don't see
very many Buddhist people upset over more people following
their way of life. They seem to welcome it. And it hasn't destroyed the Buddhists.

It's true that we all have a responsibility, and I think that our responsibility has to start with honesty... Honesty and willingness to
see and be reality. It goes back to place.

To be honest, I don't know a whole lot about the Buddhist People-if they are a people according to the following definition (People
is a body of persons sharing a common religion, culture, language,
territory, political structures.) I'm not sure. But just going on the
way you phrased it...Buddhism is a way of life says to me that it
offers principles on how to live life. I know a little about Buddhism, but I don't think Buddhist people have ever considered Buddhism a Religion or culture. Do they?

I believe it's justified in them really trying hard to understand
the spirit world.
Not good enough. No way.

So what is their hope? I mean you tear them apart but where is
their Place? They're as much displaced as many ofus. It hurts.
We know that. So where's their future? Why shouldn't we help?
Isn't it part of our responsibility as human beings to help bring
understanding to end our crisis?

Thought we dogged place. I don't get it.
It's like this. Everyone has a place. It's where they are. Not where
they think a free ride awaits them. They need to work on finding
their own spirituality by finding their own truth and reality. They
need to examine, pray, laugh and work hard and see how they arrive at their spirituality by dealing with reality. It's a process.

I
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I

I don't know.

I

I don't know either. But as far as Indigenous Peoples go, we are a
JOO

l

For instance, I have this one friend who lives in Oakland, CA.
She's a young white woman. She is one of the most spiritual people I've ever met. She doesn't talk about God nor Takashala or
whatever. I've never heard her espouse spiritual techniques or religious know-how. But she gives a damn. She works hard and she
has the guts to see the world as it is. She is a participating member
of her own family and community. She sees injustice and does an
excellent job of working and searching for long-term solutions.
She understands her talents and so she has chosen to work with
young people to raise consciousness about issues such as ceremony,
democracy and education. She's a damn good listener, and she tells
101

Laurie Weahkee

Barbara-Helen Hill

you the truth. Now that's Spirituality as far as I'm concerned. She
hasn't tried to run for cover under a God Shield, but rather has
become an active part of the shield and has taken some tough blows.
I believe that this is where the holy people have great respect and
admiration for her and her courage. They would bless her home,
her thinking and her vision. One time I saw her admire the early
morning Sun and this gave me hope.

Never Again
Never again
Will they take you from our land
Will they cut your hair and douse your head
And rid you of the bugs that only they could see
Never again
Will they strip you of your identity
And make you one of them Like all the rest
And steal your humanity,
Individuality
Spirituality
Never again
I say these words
Watch
As you cut your hair and douse your head in colours
To expel the internal creatures
That only you can see
To erase the pain and grief
That you carry for your parents
Grandparents and ancestors
the endless pain
Once more I hear the words
Never again
As I watch you walk away
To the cities and towns
To the bars and streets
Still carrying the pain
I yearn to bring you home and say
Never again
And yet, look, I am there
Beside you,

102

j

~

103

Barbara-Helen Hill

Barbara-Helen Hill

Within you,
Surrounding you,
I am there
Haunting you
For I,
inmy pain,
Did the same
As our grandmothers and grandfathers
Stood helplessly by
As you were taken
By their ways, their words,
Never again I say
As I walk away
No longer a child in their cities,
In their towns
Their words no longer control
Their liquor no longer runs in my veins
My blood flows red with my ancestors
Pumping, beating the drums of our songs,
Our hearts,
Our spirits
Now soar with eagles, ravens, hawks
And carry our prayers to
Shogwayadishoh - Creator
We will tell our children
And grandchildren for generations
How we have endured, survived and maintained
We say never again.

Eruption
mountains erupt from inside my breast
dark jagged pain explodes
to meet the clear blue of my tears
sharp, razor,
cutting pieces of my flesh
your words,
your hurts,
your slash
across my face
across my back
my tears join together, flowing
ebbing towards my heart
to wash away the debris
to wash all poisons
from my gaping wounds
and yet
you stand before me
unashamed
you dare look upon me
with no regard
for all you do
you walk upon me
as if I were your slave
to be owned and done with
as you please
It is with contempt you
glance,
and tread
and dance upon my breast
you tear
you rip

104

105

Sharron Proulx

Barbara Helen Hill

you shred
to leave a gaping wound
for which there is no mend
that you can ever fix

she reading her blanket with her hands
part i: dear diary

I leave you now
I will not trouble you again
for I will be fine
without your greed,
your hatred
your fear

jan 28
be patient, my grandmothers tell me.
listen to your body
trance yourself into your body
in there you will feel warm and safe

I need you no longer
I no longer care

this woman I know, she calls herself my friend, she pulls her arms
and makes her body like a star. she wants to hug me, her gesture of
friendship. she takes herself back from me and keeps her hands on
my shoulders to make us one. she says, why don't you just face the
truth? you're white. you don't just pass, you're white. you're not
metis, you're white like me. you shouldn't do what you do, she
says. all you do is romanticize and exoticize first nations people.
you're not realistic, you're idealistic.

for your abuse

I will be ok
when you are gone

jan 29
from way up there on the mountain top where the air is thin and
cold and the snow is white and the stars
oh the stars
oh the stars

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106

i

man is under the

there is a consciousness of a kind
of vertical relation between the stars and
white male man (and/or
oh white woman)
white male (wo)
stars
oh the stars with their white light
107

r

Sharron Proulx

Sharron Proulx

I

their white noise
white
white

meaning

the paradigmatic consciousness defines
as a veritable modulation of co-existence, ja?

form: totemism
white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white

fire
fire
burning
bright
I
wish
I
may
I
wish
I
might
I
wish
I
white
white
white
white

white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white
white

this woman I know, she calls herself my friend, she moves her
hand across to mine to make the white man's shake, her gesture of
friendship. she says she doesn't believe that whites married with
indians way back when, maybe nowadays, but not back then. you're
white, she says. I've always thought of you as white. how can
I look at you any other way? I'm a woman of colour. I experience
racism every day, you don't, I won't be your caretaker, you're white.
you're not metis, you're white.
jan 30
the word symbol has now gone a little stale; we readily replace it
by sign or signification the symbolic consciousness is essentially
the rejection of
form
108

signifier (the totem) signified (the clan)
white?
white?
write
right
I'm at a pow wow, a toddler crawls my way. she knows I'm special
knows my spirit's big for little ones. she climbs my way. she's on
my back she's in my lap she's on my back she's in my lap she
wants to sit to cuddle to sing to me. she points. her mommy's over
there. over here she's crawling back she's on my back she's in my
lap her mommy's back she pulls her from my lap. it's okay, I say,
I'm a breed I'm not a white. ya right, she says and takes her girl
away. her little arms her hands reach out across her mommy's back
she starts to cry to cry her mommy's slap, you can't go back you
can't go back she's bad she's bad she's white she's white alright?
the syntagmatic consciousness unites
signs on the level of discourse itself
the totem: white snow on mountain peak
the clan: white (wo)man is certainly the syntagmatic
consciousness which most readily renounces any (other) signified
the signifier (white snow on mountain peak)
postulates the signified (the clan)
as sovereign, extracted either from an anteriority or
from a history
he's tory, ja?
fade-out: in television, motion
109

Sharron Proulx

Sharron Proulx

pictures, and radio, a
gradual disappearance
or fading of a sequence
(a section of motionpicture film
presenting a single
episode, without time lapses or
interruptions)

ruptions in television, motion pictures, and radio, all over the world
on mountain tops too the snow is melting melting the snow is melting oh (fade-out)
be patient, my grandmothers tell me.
listen to your body
trance yourself into your body
in there you will feel warm and safe

fade-in: in television, motion
pictures, and radio, a
gradual coming
into visibility or audibility
jan 31
what's in it for the whites to change?
for the government people for the capitalist people
there's money, no?
for others?
not
white
theory
not
white
supremacy
not
white
power
rome wasn't sequenced in a day, ja?
I'm five years old. my mommy's sad she's sad she's mad they push
us here they push us there they push us round and round they push
us on the ground. they kick they kick they sing a song: two buck
fuck, two buck fuck, squaw squaw ya dirty old squaw, squaw squaw
ya dirty old squaw, two buck fuck, two buck fuck. I cry I cry I hug
my mom I hug my mom, are you okay are you okay? her face goes
rage she's red she's red she grabs a stick she hits she hits my legs
my arms my face I'm red it's blood I'm full of blood it hurts it
hurts. she hits she hits she howls, you're white I'm white you're
white I'm white we're white alright?
(fade-in) oh nothing has changed in five
hundred years past the single episode, without time lapses or inter110

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Conversion

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Armand Garnet Ruffo

She Asked Me
Here we go again, the road, endless, redundant roundabout,
Vancouver, Calgary, Toronto, Ottawa. and now here in Northern
Ontario, no, that's not true, Southern B.C. I arrived ... when? That's
what happens when you're homeless like my grandmother said all
those years ago when I used to visit her on Spadina Street where
she'd sought shelter, taken temporary refuge. A stranger in her
native land, she once wrote in a poem, and I agreed and brought
her more tea wanting to tell her that for us it's called history, the
way things are, not choice, certainly not, maybe accident (Is it?).
But I didn't have to explain. She already knew what I was about to
say and was nodding her head. I'm sure she could read my thoughts
because she asked me not to smoke, which I took as a sign.
Into a dream I awake, and the telephone gathers up space and
time in its constant ring. I can already hear a woman's voice before
I even pick it up. She is asking me when I'm coming home, our
conversation suspended in a breath, a pattern of coloured light.
Home? I answer not a little amazed she would flash such a word
through me. You mean like home and Anishnawbe land, I almost
say, but don't because she is weeping like the child she lost to the
street, to an executive position in some bank, though to her it is all
the same, the damage done. Her mourning song enters and fills me
with the last ring of sorrow for all we've done, from the infinitesimal act of stomping out a tobacco butt to the infinite of stomping
out a life, all that which has turned her sons and daughters into
strangers.
And again I awake to find myself packing to leave yet again.
The room a scatter of suitcases and boxes. All I can do is sit for a
moment and stare out to the sky and consider this journey. Yesterday (or was it the day before?) I flew through a haze of smog and
landed in San Francisco and found I could barely breathe. Today
the Okanagan sky is clear, the wind fresh as can be expected. Tomorrow is where my grandmother sits in a room staring at a wall,
where my mother lies in a hospital also staring hopelessly. The end
of their journey somewhere just beyond their wait. Earlier in the
week, in New Mexico, I journeyed to a sacred place and said a
prayer and a whirlwind appeared like an answer. Grandmother,
Mother, that prayer was for you, for all of us lost to this century,
this land turned highway.
Jl7

Daniel David Moses

Daniel David Moses

A SPELL IN THE RED

LINES UPON THE FLOW

And again the rain fell here on the roof
fell th~re on_the lawn where, tall in their bed,
the tuhps shivered, dropping petals red

Our paddles are deep in conversation with the river. Hear
how they enter it, each stroke questioning the current? And hear
how the stream replies with an eddy or splash, syllables so

as an incision, while here in the house
a game went on and on all afternoon
two of us spelling across and down ;nd

obscure, who can be sure they're adding at all to what's been thought
about night? Neither you or I can tell by a push, a pull
in the thick of dark, in the dark of the flow, its quickness or

around the kitchen table, trying with
letters, words and rules--like the one against
the use of proper names--trying with points

direction. Will putting up paddles, letting silences come,
move us out beyond discussion, beyond what carries us
along? Will we come to some conclusion in the current? But

accounta?le to balm and dispel thoughts
of operations and stomach pains. What
good could they do that woman or her son

some other tongue slips through on an old and liquid idea
and off into song. And we would join in, sing along if we
could, if only we knew the tune or some words in the language.

after all? Only when the telephone
ra~g could_my mother a~k a friend--Hearing
noises at mght and lockmg doors--is

How the river mocks our desire, breaks up in bubbles of
laughter in our wake, won't ever take us seriously, as long
as we mistake talk for speaking in tongues. Tongues of light, it

this what a widow fe~ls like? Only then
could I hear the drop m her voice of names
and words unspelled, could I think her husband,

says,
my ~ad might fall out of that hospital
bed m _town that day, might land much more than
long distance, longer than the rain away.

tongues both dumb and bright. The ones, it whispers, that push
upnver
through the sounding dark into a night so clear, you're afloat light
years out in space right here along the shore, the moon in your

At every tum that afternoon a new
word shivered across or do;n and an old
petal washed to the ground, in clouds, in sun.
Only when that light took the fall too did
th~ tele_phone ring once more, did my dad's
voice nse up, spelling the good news out in
telling how !he n~rse had just again been
by, rearrangmg his bandages. Then
we could put the game away, drop his name,
know the tall tulip~ and their splash of hue
--~ark an~ congealmg too in the evening
wmd drymg the lawn--of course were healing.
118

throats.

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119

Jacqueline Oker

Russell Teed

Daddy?

Assa

"I'm gonna be a daddy!"
A revival choir couldn't sing louder. My heart clapped against
my chest like the hands of those attending gospel church. I felt
naturally high. I began to sing again in Praise.
"The Lord has answered my prayers!"
Raising my hands to the sky, I blessed the Creator.
My girlfriend stood stunned. Her home pregnancy test showed
bright colours of a definite positive sign. Her eyes were glassy, and
her jaw was all but on the floor. Tears trickled to her cheek. I was
induced closer to reality with every tear that fell. My heart dropped
with them. Numerous questions rushed to be first to my lips. My
thoughts broke and poured out into words!
"What's wrong?" blurted from my inverted smile. "Are you
okay? Are you disappointed? Don't you want the baby?"
I gasped and tried to regroup as my thoughts ran wild. Maybe
it's not mine! I shook my head. Don't be silly. Maybe she doesn't
want me to be the father! Maybe she'll leave me and I'll never see
my child! Or worse, maybe she' II have an abortion! My heart slowed
and then it started to beat faster and faster.
I better sit down! I thought and reached for a nearby chair. I
shot back up. My mind was out of control. What about school?
Better get a job! What about marriage? I shook my head again. Oh
no! what am I gonna do?
She hadn't moved and I felt as though I had just raced an
"Ironman" marathon. Powerful to start, what a man! Studhorse!
Champion baby-maker! And then I grew weary. I felt back pain.
Imaginary cramps pointed sharp pangs to my lower stomach. My
head spun and I felt ill. Morning sickness no doubt. I sat down and
cried tears ofjoy. Mixed emotions of anxiety and confusion sprayed
from my eyes. In my mind, tears turned into tiny sperm. They fertilized everything in sight. Babies developed everywhere. I lifted
my hands to my face and covered my eyes. I was losing it. Just as
my head was ready to explode I heard her say, "So, are you ready
to be a daddy?" It was then, I dropped to the floor assuming the
fetal position. I placed my thumb in my mouth as she rocked me to
sleep in her arms.

I hope you can hear me.

120

This may be the last time I walk
onto this hill to talk to you.
This sacred ground that holds your bones in silence
is under siege.
The oil companies
want to dig you up and build a road.
Asyoo and I hitch-hiked into town
to stop them.
I tried to translate for Asyoo but
they wouldn't respect a kids voice.
They shoved us out steel doors.
My leg and fingers got caught
and my skin ripped.
I bled on their steps.
Asyoo,
she spit black scuff on their white walls.

Asyoo tells me
her sister, mother, and brother
are here with you.
Why don't they understand
this is our territory.

121

Jacqueline Oker

Jacqueline Oker

The Muskeg people's land.
The site where your haaa songs echo.

Copy Cats

I have never seen you but

Black magic

your prophecies and medicine songs

hides in the grass
lost from the night before
Young fingers grasp the neck
and guzzle the sweet black syrup
Little sister and I tell
silly stories of kindergarten
and giggle at our mischief

swirl in my head.
Asyoo and Amma say you were the last Nache.
I'm proud to be from this bloodline.

We sang your horse song

Black out!

the one given to you by the spirits.
I give little sister the bottle
and set her on the bed
I claw railing and sprawl
to the floor
I slur a drunken scream
help me up

Did you hear the agony in our voices?

Assa,
where do we go?

I

What do we do?

I
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Assa,
please help us
I hear their machines coming
down the hill.

I
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Caught!
This five year old
gurgles to mom
I'm only doing what I've
seen you do
many times before
I'm proud to say
I too have found
the magic in the
Vanilla Extract

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122

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Annie Bosum

Jacqueline Oker

A Summer Ending

Lysol
stands innocently on the shelf
green blue and white
Toxic power hidden.
Flames jump Be careful!
Death lurks inside.
Fancy words say what you are
but they don't tell how often
you have tricked our people to their graves.
These people with the schooling
They read the directions
To disinfect hold upright
15 to 20 cm from surface and spray.
Spray two to three times until surface is wet.
Prevents mildew and mould.
Eliminates odours.
The Indian reads
To get drunk hold upright.
Spray into cup
until you get enough to drink.
Mix with water if you can't afford wine.
Kills bitter memories when used regularly
Eliminates Indianess.

124

Five year old Melanie woke up to the strong smell of coffee
and to the sounds of crackling firewood as it burned in the old
stove. Its warmth soon spread around the small tent. The coziness
of the warm tent made Melanie want to drift back to sleep. She
knew it was only five o'clock. Her father Philip always made coffee that time of the morning.
Sensing she was awake, her dog a young pup, came pouncing
on her; Mee-quinn tried to lick Melanie's face. Melanie managed
to duck under cover of her sleeping bag but Mee-quinn was already sitting on top her and licking her hands until Philip gently
but firmly, in a whispering voice said, "Mee-quinn, maa-gee-echez!"
The pup obediently walked away and sat himself at the entrance of
the tent.
As Philip went out to get some more wood for the stove, the
coolness of the early September morning air crept up into the tent
sending a chill down Melanie's neck. She snuggled up into a ball
underneath the blanket to keep warm. Her mother Sarah was still
sleeping in the right hand corner of the tent. A feeling ofloneliness
and sadness suddenly overcame Melanie while she lay there as she
remembered the events of the past week. A young white man with
an interpreter had come to discuss Melanie's education.
The small grey car which drove up the dirt road leading to the
village swayed to and fro as if it were on a windy sea. The driver,
Peter Smith, from Montreal was riding with Mary Cooper, a native
of the tiny community ofMeqlon. They would be working together
in the task of registering students for the fall.
"So, has the place changed since last year, Mary?"
"No, but the Chief managed to get the community centre open
for young people to spend their time more constructively."
"That will be a tremendous help for them".
"Yes, I hope so".
As Peter and Mary got out of the car, children began to gather
around them and ask questions.
"Mister", they chided shyly.
"What is your name? Where do you come from?"
Meanwhile, Peter was busy trying to avoid the large dog that
was approaching him, sniffing his jacket. In Mary's fluent Cree,
she shooed the dog walked away.
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Inside Philip and Sarah's cabin, Philip was busy carving wood
to make a snowshoe, Sarah was making a fresh pot of tea, while
Susan and Melanie were engrossed in putting a puzzle together.
Just then there was a knock on the door. Sarah was greeted by
Mary, the interpreter and a tall, blond young man, Peter Smith.
After they shook hands the four adults sat down with cups of
hot tea to discuss the girls' schooling.
Peter turned to Susan who was sitting on the bed with Melanie,
and asked her if she was ready to go back to school. Susan smiling
shyly, replied, "yes". Meanwhile, Melanie pretended to play with
her doll trying to avoid this "stranger" who had come to their home.
Peter started to talk to Melanie in a strange language. She eyed her
sister nervously. Susan spoke to her in Cree. "He is asking you if
you are ready to start school." Melanie nodded a yes and ran over
to her mother. Peter entered the children's names onto his ledger
and explained that the children would be leaving on September the
3rd, 1969. He then asked for the signatures of Philip and Sarah.
Philip slowly wrote his name in Cree on the piece of paper. Sarah
did the same. Mary got up, patted Melanie on her head, and smiled.
Peter asked Mary to thank Sarah for the tea and not to worry about
Melanie. There would be people at the school who would take
care of her. With that, the two visitors were gone.
To Melanie's five year old mind, the idea of going away was a
frightening thought. She had no idea whatsoever as to why she
would have to leave her parents. Nor did she know what she would
do once she got there. She didn't understand why her parents could
let her go. Her older sister Susan had tried to make her feel better
by telling her that she would be there for her.
Melanie's last thought before she drifted off to sleep was that
she didn't want to leave her pup, Mee-quinn behind. The pup, now
a year and half had been given to her by grandpa Joseph on
Melanie's fourth birthday. Just this past summer Melanie had gone
swimming at the dock near their home with Susan and Mee-quinn.
Susan had taken the pup onto the shallow water and coaxed it gently to swim. Melanie had burst out laughing as they watched the
pup swim to shore, shake himself, and roll on the grass. He barked
as he stood watching the two girls swim around, then with a leap
he was in the water again with them. She had run home that day to
tell mama what happened.
When Melanie awoke again at eight-fifteen her mother was
busy cooking pancakes native style, thick and crispy. Sarah turned
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and smiled at Melanie, who was sitting on her sleeping bag wiping
her eyes.
"Get dressed, wash, and eat breakfast, my daughter".
Melanie got dressed and went to the outhouse, located further
to the left side of the tent. As she came back in she asked; "Mama,
where are papa and Mee-quinn?"
"They went to check the fishnet".
Sarah got some lukewarm water ready in a basin for Melanie to
wash her face and hands in.
After breakfast, while Sarah busied herself tidying up the makeshift beds, Melanie went out to play on the swing which her father
had made a thick rope with a small piece of plywood for the seat.
Both ends were tied securely to two trees that stood side by side
about two feet from each other. All around the swing the ground
had been cleared of any rocks, tree stumps, trunks, branches and
sticks for her safety.
The sun was higher in the blue skies, and it was much warmer
now than it had been that morning. Every now and then a bluebird
flew to peck on bits of fish left on the poles Sarah used to hang_the
fish to dry. Underneath the poles, which hung in a horizontal hne,
black embers lay from a fire now long burnt out.
Suddenly, Mee-quinn came bouncing up the path whi~h le~ to
the dock where Philip kept his canoe. With a yelp, Mee-qumn tned
to jump on to Melanie as she swung back and forth on her swing.
Melanie cried with glee as she struggled to break free from the
pup's playful leaps. She jumped off the swing and together they
ran off toward the lakeshore to meet her father. Philip was busy
unloading the large basin filled with the damp net and wiggling
fish.
"How is my little girl this morning?"
"Okay, Papa, did you catch lots of fish?"
"Yes, I did, Melanie".
She squealed as she waved her hands to keep the play_ful P~P
from pouncing up on her. They walked back to the campsite with
Philip carrying the heavy load of fish on his shoulder. For those
few happy moments, Melanie had forgotten about the sadness she
had felt that morning. The happy moments spent with Mee-quinn
was all she lived for in her innocent mind. These simple pleasures
shared by her pup had erased the fear of the unknown which she
had experienced in the wee hours of the morning.
While Melanie ran off to play with Mee-quinn not far behind,
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Sarah and Philip busied themselves setting up the firewood needed
for the fire to smoke the fish after they had been cleaned. Philip
walked over and seated himself on a tree stump beside Sarah who
was cutting the fish. He took out his pipe, lit it and spoke; "My
father has asked me ifl would like to go with him to Black Spruce
Mountain after the children leave. He wants to go moose hunting."
"Very well, it would give me the chance to start working on
those moccasins and mittens. Just make sure that there is plenty of
firewood at the cabin before you leave. You know how hard it is to
get wood near the village."
"Yes, I will do that".
The next morning at six- o'clock the cloudy skies foretold of
the coming rain. Outside it was cold and damp, but inside the tent
it was once again warm and cozy. Warmed by the wood stove now
burning at its peak. Philip coaxed his wife to get up, explaining
that they must leave early while the lake was still calm. Sarah reluctantly pulled herself up from the warmth of her blankets and
arose to drink the coffee which Philip had made for her.
Melanie was awakened by all the commotion of the morning
activities. When she finally got out of her cozy bed, Philip was
already taking some stuff to the boat to be loaded and the pup was
romping around outside excited by all the activity. After Melanie
had washed and eaten, Sarah combed Melanie's long shiny hair,
tying it in a pony tail. She gave her a sweater to put on. "Mama,
why do we have to go back?" she said sadly.
"Because we have to get you and Susan ready for school."
Sarah wrestled in her mind with the anger she felt at the thought
of having her baby taken away by people she had never even met
just like they had done to Susan when she had been the same age
seven years ago.
On the other hand, she knew in her heart that there wasn't much
she could do now. Besides it was for the good of Melanie that she
get educated. She hoped that Susan would be there to assist, guide
and support her little sister during her first year of adjusting to a
new culture. With this thought, Sarah was able to resume her packing and take the belongings down to the boat.
At approximately eight o'clock everything was set and they
were ready to go. Melanie eyed the campsite one more time, unaware that this would be the final moment until next summer when
she would be able to see it again. She focused her eyes on the
swing she had played on as they reeled away into the calmness of

the waters with their boat and motor.
The winds, which had picked up during the half hour journey
back, were just about to make the boat ride rough when they finally could view the tiny village which rested on the shores of
Abitibi Temisgimae. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the cabins,
with their brownish tones, that lined the shore. Children's laughter, dog barks rang in the cool air as the boat idled to a stop and
landed heavily on the sandy beach. The pup jumped up from the
boat and ran off excitedly. Melanie and Sarah went off to meet
Susan, who had stayed behind at aunt Mary's place.
A teenage boy, Nick, who was fishing nearby, came by to help
Philip unload the stuff and carry it to the cabin. The cabin was cold
and empty when Philip first entered it. But about an hour later, the
small, one bedroom cabin was warmed by the wood stove, and
alive with excitement as the family was about ready for a hearty
meal of moose meat stew and bannock. While Susan set the table
for six, Sarah cut up the bannock and placed it at the centre of the
table. When everyone was seated, Grandpa Joseph recited a prayer
of thanks. Everyone started to dig in to satisfy their hunger.
"Susan", Grandma said in a soft voice, "be sure and take good
care of Melanie when you get to school".
"Yes, I will, grandma."
Sarah looked at Melanie, "I'm going to miss my baby".
"Yes, we all will, but it is for the good of them that they go",
replied grandma Helen.
"True, then my little girl will be able to translate for me whenever we need to go into town".
Joseph replied, "So you will not have to worry if the cashier is
giving you the right amount of change".
Helen and Sarah looked at each other and giggled.
"Grandpa!" Melanie's voice rang out, "Mee-quinn ran after a
squirrel at the camp, but he didn't catch it. The squirrel ran up a
tree".
Grandpa Joseph laughed, "Mee-quinn is still too young to hunt".
The following day Melanie was awakened by Susan's voice.
Susan told her she had to get ready to leave for school.
Sunlight coming from the window shone on Melanie's face,
she ducked under her blanket to hide from it. Susan playfully nudged
Melanie's legs.
"Melanie, it's time to wake up, it's seven o'clock and the bus
will be here at nine-thirty".

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Melanie, not wanting to get up, curled up into a ball and closed
her eyes once more. Knowing what would do the trick to get her
up, Susan went out and called for Mee-quinn. Sure enough, the
pup went straight to the bed where Melanie slept and pounced on
her. Melanie, with a sheepish grin, sat up, and hugged Mee-quinn.
At nine o'clock that September morning everything was done
and the girls were just about ready for the bus, which, in a couple
of hours, would be taking them miles away from this place they
called home. Sarah was fussing over Melanie's hair when they heard
a man's voice yell, "The bus is here! It has arrived!" Sarah and
Philip looked at each other silently. The day which they had dreaded
had come and, with it, hearts heavy with sadness. They both tried
to put on a strong face for the sake of Melanie. She was excited
about her first ride on the bus.
Sarah, Philip, Joseph and Helen, walked to the bus with Susan
and Melanie. A crowd of people, young and old had already gathered at the bus area. They were kissing and hugging one another
and shaking hands. While the suit cases were loaded onto a truck,
a woman was calling out the students' names as they boarded the
bus. Others were crying now as they glanced once more to loved
ones among the crowd.
Melanie hugged her pup Mee-quinn, whispering good bye.
Choking back tears, Sarah and Philip kissed their daughters goodbye, urging Susan to take care of Melanie.
The fear which manifested itself on the faces of some of the
children weighed heavily on the hearts of parents and relatives as
they waved farewell. Melanie forced a smile as she waved to her
parents and grandparents while the big yellow bus rolled away
toward the highway which would take Melanie to a whole new
way of living.
A world where the unfamiliarity of a new language and culture
would be thrust upon her. Melanie would be coming back a different person. Yet her innocence forbade her even to begin to realize
this change that would be taking place.
Her parents knew though, and, as they waved goodbye to the
girls that day, they said good-by to the wonderful person they had
known for such a short period of time: Melanie, Waa-shaa-shkon,
Blue Skies.

Drumbeat

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Come here my friend
Sit down and hear
the whispers of our
grandmothers and grandfathers
before us,
What do you hear?
Is it about sadness and
darkness?
or peacefulness and happiness?
can you hear it?
Do you hear the cries?
Of ones who are longing
to feel the sadness
Or do you hear the
joys and sighs
of ones who walked
so proudly and so strong
Who stood so powerful and tall
And can you hear the music?
of drums that beat so loud and so strong
or Can you see it?
The Warriors standing all around you
Greeting you, and Welcoming you
My friend.
Or do you hear
Silence and see
Nothing?

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A.A. Hedge Coke

Digs
novel excerpt
from DIGS
Los Angeles, 2030
chapter VI

Stephanie recalled the meetings at which the Hold-Outs had
urged the Coalition of Commerce to remove the Mainstreamers
from the continent and relocate them in Eurasia. It was their belief
that any Mainstreamers left in the new society would plague the
continent once again. Just as they had brought with them smallpox
infected blankets as gifts for the Natives. Just as they had introduced the drink of alcohol which NPIIC considered the slow smallpox blanket and which had wreaked havoc on Native peoples during the twentieth century. By 1985 85% of the Native population
was affected directly by the disease of alcoholism, fetal alcohol
syndrome, diabetes, and cirrhosis of the liver. In the late 1900's the
esteemed Native actor Dehl Berti had once commented, "T.B.,
Smallpox, Measles, Alcoholism--they brought all of this with them-the only thing we got of any value in return was eye glasses."
Of course, Northridge officials did not agree with the statements of the more traditional Native peoples. And Stephanie found
much use in the modem world for the gifts of germ warfare, nuclear power, genetic code altering, test tube babies, and cloning.
She understood their value in gaining control and maintaining
power.
The NPIIC had suggested the Euro-Americans be removed from
this continent. N orthridge was an advocate of a re-education of the
Euro-Americans. Of de-programming their combined social consciousness into a state of awareness suitable to the society which
had emerged. NPIIC had no clout; Northridge did. Stephanie was
proud of her choice in affiliation with the University. She knew
they would work for the betterment of mankind, just as the Europeans had attempted to at one time. Though they had failed, she
believed they left salvageable methods to attain the goals they had
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once set for themselves.
Professor Thompson watched her from the doorway, observing her concentration and devotion in her work. She was a skilled
member of the assimilation effort and knew what to do. He had
taught her all she needed to know. He kept a watch on her for over
five minutes before he announced his arrival, as though it had just
that moment occurred, "Stephanie, I have returned. Have you
enough information to go on?"
She was happy to hear his voice, "Yes. I have more than enough.
I am a pack rat, a meticulous note taker, I have enough here to go
before the Coalition if need be."
"I do not think that will be necessary." he laughed. "You are
something. Good work!"
"Craig," she said and smiled shyly, "I did tell Mr. Stark I was
bringing you with me. On the basis of the threats, of course." "Of
course," he said, as if he hadn't noticed her using his first name
which pleased him a great deal, "We should stop somewhere for a
quick lunch on the way over to his home. How about the Burger
Hamlet up the street?" he asked.
"I would love to, they have great juice mixes there and wonderful California-style dressings." She began gathering together
her compilation.
"Yes, then shall we?" His voice carried the false British intonations so many of those people in prestigious positions utilized. The
NPIIC had issued a statement claiming that this was due to the
Euro-centricity of the Mainstreainers and was used by endowment
organizations as a prerequisite for funding policies. If the representative of an organization applying for funding spoke in that
manner, the NPIIC stated, they received funding without the usual
delay and investigation or review periods. Many assimilated Native Americans used this technique as well as the Mainstreamers
for equal opportunity purposes.
Stephanie filled a briefcase. Thompson carried the rest of her
folders under his arm for her. Thompson turned toward the elevators, but Stephanie pointed to the exit sign hanging over the stairwell, "We haven't had any aerobic exercise today."
The descent downward gave her a feeling of exhilaration and
she hopped down the last few stairs in a hop. Professor Thomps?n,
Craig, enjoyed her excitement. He felt refreshed when walkmg
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with her to her jeep.
As she unlocked the doors for the both of them she said, "Craig,
thank you for sticking with me through this. I would have been
oblivious without your early warning and help today. Thank you. I
am indebted to you." He smiled at her and she felt an inner joy in
his approval of her words. They boarded the vehicle and started
off toward the eatery.
She avoided the route which passed by the yuppie pub and took
an easterly direction off campus instead. Passing through suburbia
made her feel as if all of this was worthwhile. She couldn't begin
to imagine why some of her fellow Native peoples would want to
return to a life without brick homes, without the rewards of the
industrial age. She loved the way the tract homes met yard to yard
and remembered her visits to the new Santa Fe, that it looked like
a modem-day town of Bedrock. Yes, she thought, we must all be
the same. It is inevitable and it is right. That is what multi-cultural
stands for-sameness. We are living out the prophesy of sameness
and conglomeration. She had argued this repeatedly with the HoldOuts she had encountered in the past. They felt that the indigenous
peoples needed time to heal from the centuries of oppression-alone. Stephanie held on to the 90's "New Age" theories of togetherness and harmony. She longed for the day when melanin would
be injected into the Euro-Americans in their de-programming campaign and everyone would attain like skin colour. She supposed
the African-Americans would utilize a skin lightener to reach the
same tone, as well. A former superstar, Michael Jackson, had been
accused of this decades ago. The public discovered he actually had
a skin disease which lightened his complexion; however, the idea
had been born and had been used by others. The African-Americans had been instrumental in the progress of civil rights in her
grandmother's days and Grandma had held their accomplishments
in high regard.
She thought for awhile about the great discoveries and inventions of the Asian-Americans, the electronic achievements and
equipment beyond the dreams of the ancestors. She felt some confusion about Latin-Americans. She was told by her mother that
they were a mixed people of Native and European descent, mostly
Spanish and Portuguese European, but they often wanted no part
of being considered Native. War babies, she thought, just as the
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Metis. Maybe it is better that way. She glanced at her own dark
skin and thought, sameness solves everything.
Her mother had told her that in the days of the first reservations
here, in Mexico and Central America the Native peoples had been
convinced to state only their European lineage. There were some
Hold-Outs in those areas as well, but they lived an extremely hard
life if they chose to remain true to their nationalities. Enslaved by
missionaries, tortured, killed for centuries, somewhere along the
line some of them broke, as their oppressors knew they would.
Many tribes had forgotten their languages altogether. Europeans
knew this was vital to a proper conquering. Kill the language, kill
the culture.
Stephanie remembered reading in some pamphlets that the HoldOuts' descendants had compassion for other peoples. They listed
an agenda for self-determination for them, too. The Gallah language and dialect were still prevalent in remote areas in lower South
Carolina and the NPIIC had suggested a sovereign nation be established in non-native populated areas there for the African-Americans. In addition, they had suggested parts of New York and San
Francisco be set aside for Asian-Americans and that some of the
very far southwest be laid as an area for the Latin-Americans/
Chicanos to have an Atzlan homeland. The agenda addressed longterm goals and permanent lands for these people who were willing
to support a Native America, Northern First Nations, Indigenous
Mexico and the separate sovereign nations of these tribes and communities within the continent. Stephanie agreed with these plans.
She realized that there were some groups of people that could not
go back to their homelands, as the Euro-Americans could. Many
had not come here on their own free will to begin with, and would
not be accepted on return.
Stephanie turned onto Interstate 5 South on their detour and
found the freeway full of cars, side by side, of all makes and designs. She took notice that all of the cars contained three or more
people. She knew the story of the 90's when almost every vehicle
had only one passenger within it. The Car Pool Enforcement Planning, in concept, had ensured less gasoline use, but in reality it had
little effect as people would simply load in children that would
have stayed home otherwise. She noted this as a target area for
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pass the automotive industry's monopoly on the design for vehicles which ran on solar and other passive energies. It was too soon
now. They were only ten years into the program she knew they
couldn't accomplish everything in ten years.
Nearing Hollywood Freeway 170, she made ready for a proper
tum onto the busy road. She noticed at least one patrol car parked
on the shoulders waiting for speeders. That much hadn't changed,
it was the end of the month and the quotas were due for the officers
to remain on payroll. She adjusted her speed to the legal limit and
pulled onto 170 next to a semi loaded with produce from a more
environmentally safe growth zone, probably the Amazon meadow
which had replaced most of the jungle after the mass destruction
of rain forests there. The NPIIC said that if the governments of
South America had refused the United States and other dominant
countries' actions to destroy rain forests, the aggressors would have
been forced to preserve and enhance the lands in North America.
Without preservation they would have no farming and ranching
alternative. They requested full participation from the governments
of South America in stopping this "global war on life and its inhabitants." The newspapers often had articles about the declining
life force in the Western Hemisphere as a result of these practices
and of the silent and bloody war on the Indigenous in these areas.
Following the lines of cars and trucks, Stephanie made her way
to Hollywood Boulevard and exited just in time to narrowly miss a
motorcyclist threading traffic on the offside of the shoulder. Crazy,
she thought while she checked her rear-view mirror for traces of
the biker.
When they reached the burger joint, the professor said, "What
is it, Stephanie? You haven't said a word for twenty minutes."
"Nothing is wrong. Just lost in thought, I guess." She stepped
forward through the glass doors under the electro-lighting and flash
sequence sign. He followed her as if trailing a pipe dream emblem.
She asked for a rush to go order since they had little time left for
dining.
The waiter hurriedly disappeared behind swinging plexiglass
doors soon returning with their order in a recyclable foil bag. The
waiter collected their payment and scurried off to attend to others,
caught in the hurry of the human rac~L.A. style----their heads
bobbing in animated conversation, trying to impress and upstage
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their peers. Stephanie stepped back on the street and jumped into
her jeep to make the route to the Starks' home. Thompson followed, jumping in only a second later. Eating while she drove,
Stephanie asked, "Could you turn on the radio, please? My hands
are full."
"Sure, do you want to discuss anything about the case?" he
asked.
"I do want to ask you under what existing clause could they
possibly file an injunction to stop the project?"
She took bites between speaking and steering.
"I believe under civil-rights and reburial issues."
"But, those are to protect our rights, not theirs."
She narrowly missed being side-swiped by a small compact
car.
He grabbed the handle above the passenger door and answered.
"Yes, that is why I believe they will try this to reverse much of our
progress."
"Absurd," she said flatly and continued eating.
"You know those Yuppies," said the professor, and he began to
eat his meal as well.
They had finished eating when they arrived in front of the red
and white brick tract house accommodating the Stark family.
Before leaving the vehicle she reviewed the order of the files
with the precision of a mantis preparing to dine. She reorganized
the last layer of papers to the mid-section. Pleased with the collation of folders, she said, "We have the upper hand here."
"No doubt," responded the professor and they left the jeep
parked along the curb and strolled up the brick walk to the massive
house made to resemble styling of the last century.
Knocking upon the door, then impatiently ringing the bell, they
waited as Joseph Stark made his way from the kitchen to the entrance way. He opened the peek hole to ensure it was them and
allowed them entrance.
"Ms. Red Horse and .... "
"Professor C. Thompson," Stephanie offered and extended her
hand to him. He denied the sign of friendship as if he thought it
less a courtesy than a pandering to authority. He proceeded down
the hall summoning them to follow by waving his hand. Stephanie
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noticed his suit was slightly wrinkled and assumed he had not gotten
enough sleep by the rings under his eyes. They coldly displayed
every bit of his fifty-two years and then some. His brown hair was
neatly combed. Very businesslike, she thought. As they entered
the study Joseph's wife called out from the stairwell, "Joseph, do
you need me?"
He walked to the stairwell, "Darling, I have this under control." he said. "Ifl need you, I will call."
Eva liked very much to be needed by her husband. She smiled
slightly at him and sharply looked at Red Horse as if hawking her.
Eva was relieved her husband referred to her in this way. She felt
important and assured he could, in fact, handle the likes of Red
Horse and her consort. She knew in her heart that he could handle
them, but her mind was troubled. Red Horse, she thought, is another story, a greater adversary. She kept watching Stephanie out
of the corner of her eyes until they went into the study.
Stark joined Stephanie and Thompson in the study and found
them already seated and appearing very comfortable with the arrangement.
"Ms. Red Horse, I have here some personal belongings attesting to the fact that my mother is the same Ellen Stark whose remains you claim to have found traces of LSD on. I implore you to
view this evidence and the paperwork I was able to locate as evidence in contestation of your so-called research project." Stark
controlled his emotions as though he were conducting a merger of
businesses. This enabled him to be objective and he hoped enabled
him to be more convincing in his plea. "Honour is at stake. Our
family is of great prestige and has come through much scrutiny
over the last few decades with a clean slate. I do not want that slate
marred." He looked to her with confidence. As he lay the validations
before her as monuments to his mother, his eyes held her complete
attention.
Stephanie looked over the pictures asking, "Do you have a diary, or any personal writings by your mother?"
His voice softly lowering, he said, "No, not that I want to be
made public. It is my mother, and her personal writings are just
that, personal." He watched her to make certain she knew the emphasis he placed on this statement.
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stand." Stark looked at her coldly knowing she would love to read
writings on one of her subjects of study, especially one that had
drug involvement. He held his ground on revealing any other personal effects at this time, but gave the impression he did possess
some.
Stephanie lifted the locket, which was identical to the one Ellen
Stark had worn, opened it and found a picture of her in her young
adulthood. Seemingly unaffected, she continued on through the
pictures. She passed each item to the professor as she completed
looking at it. He took care to notice the subtle differences in Stark's
appearance--searching for noticeable physical deterioration from
drug abuse.
"Is this all you have?" she asked him.
"I have here several papers and clippings from the news during
my mother's short life. She was a woman of peace. She wanted no
one harmed, only freedom for the people she loved."
Stephanie took out her notebook and began writing notes as he
spoke in reference to his mother, while she looked through the
papers and clippings he had produced. Undaunted by her documentation of his words he continued, "The Stark family are advocates of peaceful negotiations. We spearheaded many businesses
and industries that are vital to the new society and have been of
help to your people in initiating the assimilation programs of the
past. You have benefited from our knowledge. We are a people
who have been displaced, yes, but not outlived and we plan to
continue our gifts to society in the new order. We believe we can
work with you, but you must stop this insane research on our dead.
What can it possibly accomplish?"
"Truth." Stephanie replied. We were at a disadvantage at one
time in that we did not understand the value in these research methods, but you convinced us otherwise. We know now it is important
to study peoples to understand them. Surely, you agree, after all
the years of your research on our people." She watched him through
slit eyes pressuring him with unspoken words in the game of subtle interrogation. She was quite adept at duplicating tactics of the
Euro-centric teachers in this field of human study; her professors
had told her so.
"No, I do not. I know my grandparents were involved in some
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tion. Our people had written pasts you could research on paper and
computer discs. He pointed to the computer terminal on his desk
and to the dozens of discs laid out in neat rows next to it. There is
no need to remove our dead, they cannot tell you anything."
"They tell us more than the living. The findings of the LSD
verified the plight of the corporate world in the late 1900's. Their
involvement in narcotics led them to fall. We don't want the same
mistakes duplicated in our society. This must never occur again.
Truth and more progress. That is what the past lives tell us."
Stark handed Stephanie an LA Times picture of his mother leading a protest in 1968. "Look at her, she is standing up for freedom.
She is leading the charge. You are taking away her freedom, even
in death and violating our rights beyond the grave!" He rose quickly
to full height and raised his hand in the air momentarily before
placing it over his heart and regaining composure.
Stephanie calmly raised an eyebrow and very quietly said, "Mr.
Stark, please, on one is violated. The lab at the University treats all
remains with dignity. We do not butcher corpses as did your people. We merely discover hidden facts about the person's life. We
document these findings in hopes of making a substantial impact
in implementing change for the new world. Since winning the
United Reburial issue in the 90's, our people have vowed to rebury
the dead as soon as we complete research on the remains, much as
the Smithsonian agreed to do way back then with the 30,000 Native remains they held onto for so long." Breaking very slightly
she continued, "This, is progress. This, is hope for the future."
Stephanie pulled out papers from within her briefcase and
quoted precedents in policy that insured her right to research, based
on rights of research the Mainstreamers had taken over the Natives
for centuries. She quoted the legislation 'Title 44' for operations
such as these, "Due to the Mainstreamers burning all evidence they
could collect from the ages previous to the twenty-first century."
The evidence had been burned to prohibit the Natives from discovering data they needed to help in their acquisition of power and
control. Professor Thompson added in extra information whenever he deemed necessary. He stated that anything historical prior
to the year 20 l Owas mysterious to those who could not remember.
The two of them made a remarkable presentation of reason and
logic. Stark was unmoved by their legal quotations. Realizing this,
140

Stephanie resorted to explaining to him the implications of any
further accusations against her research.
Calmly and coldly, she began, "Mr. Stark, I regret that this finding has caused you concern; however, it is a factual find, it is a
great find. I realize you feel you might suffer some family embarrassment, but the facts are indeed the facts, notwithstanding."
"Ms. Red Horse, I will pursue this until I have put an end to the
toll on my family. I will not allow my family to suffer for some
ridiculous idea that something can be accomplished by embarrassing people of social stature from my culture. Euro-Americans made
this country great."
"Euro-Americans caused this country great grief and raged
genocide on The People for a long time." Shaking her head she
went on, I see no reason to continue this discussion. You can tune
into FOX Television tomorrow for full details on the dig. Is there
anything else I can do for you, Mr. Stark?"
"Yes, we are not finished here. I will get my mother's diary. If
you insist on making a mockery of her life I will assist you, on the
condition you make this person's identity anonymous and retract
previous identity as a mistake due to the many graves you are robbing in Forest Lawn."
"Let me see what you have. I am making no promises of conditions until I have had time to view the evidence to decide if it is of
any worth to us. I need to weigh the pros and cons."
"If you will excuse me," Stark uttered on the way out, leaving
them in the study.
The professor smiled a huge grin at Stephanie, proud at the
manner in which she manipulated Stark into producing further traces
of the past to them. He knew this could be extremely valuable to
the research and when making even a verbal agreement, nothing
was guaranteed, no agreement with a Euro-American Mainstreamer
was. He mused at the idea Stark had fallen prey to one of the oldest
tricks his ancestors utilized.
"Craig, we could find the entire missing components of the
family fortune in that journal. I must have it. I must make copies of
it for my files. Along with this locket." She took the chain of the
locket and held it up to her neck, hoping to wear it as a trophy of
conquest. She admired herself in the reflection off the glass on the
desk they were seated.
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Laurie Weahkee

"You do look wonderful in jewellery," the professor said, "you
should take more of it, for research, of course."
She watched the glimmer of the metal, pleased at the thought
of owning Euro-American traditional jewellery, just as the
Mainstreamers had become mesmerized by Native jewellery, for
so long. She was filled with the infatuation of being exotic, another race, another breed. She moved the chains slightly to create
more bounce of light off the chain from a large crystal chandelier
hanging high above. She wanted to be white. She wanted to be
European. Stephanie wanted to have privilege, knowledge, to have
power The People had never known. She watched the light dancing in her fantasy. Thompson watched the light dancing off her
beautiful dark eyes.

woven blue shadows
Your breath is melting
into late night forest wind
urging pine needles
to whisper along the mountain tips
Early this morning I fell outside
my pale blue painted door
into the garden of green leaves
and scattered little bugs chewing pollen
This morning you fell thru my little blue door
a drop of moonlight
shining thru a loosely woven blanket
I wonder where you will create shadows and illumination

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Jack D. Forbes

have discovered
that animals, bacteria,
plants, trees, humans
all share the same
building blocks of DNA
repeated over and over
in different patterns-same stuff
just arranged uniquely.

Kinship is the Basic Principle of Philosophy
The Thunder-beings are alive:
grandfathers!
The Earth is alive:
mother and grandmother!
The trees are alive:
grandfathers, grandmothers!
The rocks are alive:
relations of all!
The birds of the air
the fishes of the sea
the animals that run
the smallest bugs
we are related!

But what a great thing!
to learn that the old
indigenous philosophers
have been right
have seen past differences
have seen through externals
have seen beyond divisions
have penetrated mysteries
to teach us of the
unity of all life-and without using computers!

For hundreds of years
certainly for thousands
Our Native elders
have taught us
"All My Relations"
means all living things
and the entire Universe
"All Our Relations"
they have said
time and time again.
And here's the good news!
The geneticists
have at last
learned to read the DNA
and lo and behold
they find that the Old American
elders are spot on!
The white-robes
priests of the new electric monasteries
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But the old wise ones
have talked also
of water
of rocks
of earth
of clouds
of sky
saying:
all my relations
leaving the geneticists
still in the dark!
For DNA does not make life
having DNA does not make
one move
having DNA does not make
one change
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Jack D. Forbes

having DNA does not make
one "breathe"
having DNA does not make
one grow into a mountain
having DNA does not make
one erupt
having DNA does not make
one unite in congress
with another!
For surely it is that
all of us
have other things
in common
known long before DNA
known long before genes
and I mean
those things,
those structures,
we call chemical elements
like
oxygen
hydrogen
you know the rest.
For surely we already share them
with everything else
we already know we are the same
our bodies have nothing not found
in the earth
in the water
in the air

And the Ancient Ones
already have instructed us
ofhow
we are one with all these things!

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And when hydrogen and oxygen combine
in a grand sexual orgy
producing their child water
do they not act?
do they not change?
do they not move?
What could be more alive than water?
Magic water
the greater part of us
alive, are we full of death
of that which is dead?
No, I won't have it said that
my innards are dead
that the salt water core of me
is not alive
and all of my acids
and proteins
and cells
and molecules
all are alive.
To move, indeed, is to be alive.
Uli, motion,
the sacred principle of
ancient Mexico
Uli, motion,
produced first by the
powers of the four directions
who, being in disequilibrium,
produced tension
and the first movement
the beginning of the physical universe
as it would appear.
And indeed the astronomers know
that there could be no
first explosion
no "big bang"
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Jack D. Forbes

without movement
without motion
and only life moves
it is seen
the dead do not move.

And what about lava?
Rocks flowing like water?
And what about sand
becoming rocks
and what about sea shells
and bones becoming rocks?

Energy,
yes energy
we all have energy
and in our molecular cores
atomic centers
those ever-moving
electrons
particles
quarks
moving, moving, moving
alive, alive, alive!

So don't kid me my friend,
rocks change
rocks move
rocks flow
rocks combine
rocks are powerful friends
I have many
big and small
their processes, at our temperatures,
are very slow
but very deep!

Do you doubt still?
a rock alive? You say
it is hard!
it doesn't move of its own accord!
it has no eyes!
it doesn't think!
but rocks do move
put one in a fire
it will get hot won't it?
That means
won't you agree?
that its insides are moving
ever more rapidly?

I understand because, you see,
I am part rock!
I eat rocks
rocks are part of me
I couldn't exist without
the rock in me
We are all related!
The mad materialists, of course,
believe in blind faith
that the elements are like machines
that we have a mechanistic world
where dead things combine
magically
as if on command
as if commanded by a machine-maker
as if programmed by a
master programmer
now assassinated of course!

Rocks are all different!
That one's not good for a sweat
because when it gets too
hot it will shatter!
It will fly all over the place
and bum you good!

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Greg Young-Ing

But "mechanistic" can only be a metaphor
a metaphor only possible
during the past two centuries
only possible in a factory
where machines are made
and placed and programmed.

Don't Ask Me To Believe It
(for Lome Simon)
Don't ask me to believe it's true
don't ask me to believe
things like that can happen
to people
like me
and you

Do we live in an auto-matic world
where elements automatically combine
where processes automatically occur?
Well, auto-matic
means self-acting
and nothing self-acts if it is dead
and we are all actors subject
to heat
to cold
to pressure
to attractions
to rejections
to instructions, and perhaps, at our electrical core,
to chance.
And really, a world of machines
'
of dead, invariable combinings
is a world which could never by itself change
a static,
frozen,
dead world!
No, it's alive I tell you,
just like the old ones say
they've been there
you know
they've crossed the boundaries
not with computers
but with their
very own beings!

We shout words at one another
we place words into the air
trying to make them fit
somewhere
in the universe
We shoot words upward
into the endless black of space
wish that they find
particles of sparkling fire
and become stars
to guide the faded path
of one of our own

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Searching for meaning
in this crazy place
of industry and spirit
we publish prophesy
rebirthing our nations
while it is those who surround us
who move toward their own end
by ignoring our words
So don't ask me to believe it's true

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Greg Young-Ing

I picture you the dreaming moon
in a darkened Micmac sky
reflecting red off the northern lights
on the eastern seaboard
of this massive island

Now we hold your book
open to the sky
calling you
to come back down
and read

I picture you locking yourself up
with your computer
in a tiny room
that became a palace of words
a kingdom of pages
a universe of creation

We picture you locked up
in another room
writing new words into song
listening to new music
by Marley and Hendrix

You made yourself a jail
that became a prism of light
emanating every colour in the spectrum
through white and black
11 suicides in Big Cove
in the past two years
those young Micmac relatives
who were too battered
to find fulfilment in the fight
and you who lived to write
So don't ask me to believe it's true

And they are alive
I heard them just the other day
on the radio
and we have your book
and Heidi has your computer
and your computer has more books
waiting to be published
So don't ask me to believe it's true
don't ask me to believe
things like that can happen
to people
like me
and you

You can not just go like that
without even asking me
to say good-bye
or tell of my respect
your talent
your dedication
your unbelievable stature
or your amazing words
the ones that make my own
seem like dribble
in TV commercials

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Children

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I

AGE OF RAP
Those who once listened to
flutes and drums
Now listen to
rap
Driving in their
low-riding rez cars
That replaced
the proud ponies
They once rode
down to their tipi or
Their adobe
both brick and
Deer leather
give way to
Metal
mobile home
In the age of
rap

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Melissa Austin

CLOUDS UNNOTICED

Bluejay's Free Lunch

Light shades of grays mix, into the whites
The faintest hint of existing shadow.
Delicate, yet so bold.
It hovers, silently.
Constant action, yet still.
It lingers like the last words, of a love song.
Through the mind's eye it takes many forms.
Detached from all, apart.
Seen within, seen without
Parallel, with a sense of symmetry.
To all else, distant.
Distant, and yet so close.
To, and away.
A wanderer, a shadow thief.
Cascades of light it seals,
Radiant sunlight,
fiery reds and yellows and docile purples.
All fall about it,
As if it's calling them
Soft and sunken, mellow and light.
Gathered patches, weaving throughout
The clouds, glowing, and yet not.
A ferrying ark of the soul,
Whose picture perhaps tells a dream,
A tale,
A story of bright and dull wonder,
Sleepy, yet full awake
it's sitting, resting, there.
Against the blues,
Mellow and excited, It tugs at curiosity,
Pulls at imagination.
So different.
So similar.
In some strange sense,
A panorama of ones's self.
What one does, or does not see,
Perhaps it's a mirror to show,
All none,
None all.
It invokes thoughts of wonder.

There once lived a young sneaky bluejay; he was the smartest
bluejay of all the bluejays. All of the other bluejays didn't like
lying around him because he was not only smart, but he was dishonest. So he usually travelled solo. But, he did not mind because
he did not have to worry about others telling on him so it was
easier to fool many.

158

One day when he flew off to find his lunch he saw a flock of
robins below picking strawberries. As he soared towards the robins he thought of a way to trick his way into a free lunch. As he
landed he pretended that he hurt his foot. He talked the robins into
letting him watch their full baskets of berries. They weren't very
sure at first, but he convinced them by saying that he had to rest his
sore foot.
As soon as the robins were out of sight he immediately started
devouring the berries. In no time he had eaten all of the berries,
and realized that he had better come up with a plan quick because
he could see the robins returning for their berries.
He quickly went over to a nearby strawberry plant and picked a
few strawberries and smeared them all over his face to make it
look like he was bleeding. So when the robins saw the empty basket and the blood (berry juice) on bluejay's face they felt sorry for
him. They started asking him a bunch of questions like "What happened to your face?" and "Where did all of the berries go?" Bluejay
replied saying "A seagull came and attacked me and took all of
your berries. When the seagull attacked me it made my mouth
bleed". Then bluejay said, "Here look my mouth is bleeding". As
he showed them the red marks on his face.
The robins believed his story and felt sorry for him and offered
him some of the strawberries that they had just picked. As he greedily ate these berries he soon started to get a stomach ache from
eating too much.

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Alison Austin

The robins said, "We thought that you only hurt your foot and
your mouth". "Yes" said bluejay. "I did hurt my foot and my mouth,
but also I hurt my stomach when the crow took the berries". But,
then the robins said, "You told us that it was a seagull". "Oh! Yes
didn't I tell you that there was two birds" said bluejay.

Nattie Parson's Good Luck Lamb
Once there was a little girl named Nattie. She lived with her
grandma, and they had a small flock of sheep. One day Nattie found
a small little lamb in the bushes. It had wirey and scragily wool.
Nattie asked her grandma and she shook her head no. Nattie said
she could be a good luck lamb. The grandma said all right we will
call her Clover like a four leaf, said Nattie.

That is when snail came creeping out of some bushes and said,
"That's not true!" Snail told them the truth and, bluejay sadly flew
home and went to bed with a stomach ache.
The moral of the story is ONE LIE LEADS TO ANOTHER
AND IT IS ALWAYS BETTER TO TELL THE TRUTH

Then she fixed the lamb up in the barn and made her look clean
and pretty. Whenever Clover wandered around she would get hungry, and she would go to the field and eat green leaves and grass.
Over the winter Nattie and Clover were so happy. They didn't
see her grandma for a long time. But, then she came to Nattie and
told Nattie that they don't have food for the winter. She said to last
the winter we can only keep the sheep with the best wool. But, you
won't sell Clover will you? asked Nattie. She can eat my food.
When it was bed time Nattie and Clover couldn't sleep. When
Nattie went to pet Clover she was starving. So she went outside to
get some raspberries. But, when Clover was going to stop eating
the raspberries she saw one raspberry that she just couldn't pass
by. So Clover ate all of the raspberries.

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Nattie was calling Clover. Clover was looking for a smile on
Nattie's face, but Nattie was upset because some of Clover's wool
was stained from the raspberries that she had eaten. Then Nattie
said, "Oh well I will just have to wash the wool until it comes out".
Oh well thought Nattie that is the best I can do and it will just have
to do the way it is.
Nattie was ready to use the sheep's wool for her weaving, and
she started to work on her weaving right away.
Grandma went to the shop to sell the sheep that they had ready
for the market, and Nattie had her weaving in a bag ready to sell as

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well. When they got to the store Nattie told the store owner that
she had woven a shawl to sell. The store owner said that the shawl
might not be suitable to sell in this store.
Then Nattie pulled the shawl from her bag just as two rich
people came through the door. One of them said that Nattie had a
fine weaving. The other person took the weaving from Nattie and
said that they would buy the weaving for what ever amount it is
worth. So Nattie sold the weaving and the money lasted them for
the rest of the winter. Nattie said that maybe next time Clover could
eat the blueberries and the wool for the shawl could be blue instead of pink like it was this time from the raspberries that Clover
had eaten that stained the wool.

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How The Halibut Got It's Shape
It was many years ago in a small bay called Kitgoro. There was
a young halibut. He was very heavy and very strong. He had a lot of
confidence .. a bit too much. He always teased all the other creatures in the bay. He was told not to go near the surface. He was
wondering why he should not go to the surface. He was told if he
went to the surface that he would be attacked by many dangerous
creatures like hawks, eagles and otters. Seals were the most dangerous of all.
Kitgoro is a very plentiful place and there were lots of eagles,
seals and otters. It is a very dangerous place in Kitgoro. The halibut
was very daring and fast. He thought that he could outrun anything
that would try to attack him but what he did not know was how fast
and strong the eagles were.
The halibut was very bored one day. He decided to go to the
surface. He went up for about 5 minutes and finally got to the surface. When he got there he poked his head out of the water but just
as fast as he had poked his head out of the water he went back in.
Then he poked his head out of the water but this time he did not go
back down. He was looking at the amazing scenery. He was amazed
by the bright light. Where he had come from it was always very
dark. After awhile he was getting tired. He decided to find some
herring to eat and then go home. He wanted to tell his friends but
he knew if someone found out that he had gone to the surface, he
would have gotten into a lot of trouble.
He made many trips to the surface. He found lots of different
things on the surface. When spring came to Kitgoro he was going
to the surface more frequently.
The one trip that he made to the surface that he would never
forget was about halfway through the summer: He was swimming
on the surface when all of a sudden an eagle came swooping out of
the sky and grabbed him and flew away. The eagle was very big
and strong ... very strong! At first the eagle wasn't very tired and he
was heading to shore very quickly. After awhile he was getting
tired. He had grabbed the halibut in his left eye. The halibut was in
a lot pain and he did not have a lot of time to get out of the eagle's
grasp. The halibut was very frantic. The eagle was slowing down a
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bit but not very much. The eagle wasn't loosening his grip at all.
The halibut was getting to the point that he was hardly able to
think straight. The halibut was getting very tired but he was keeping himself from falling unconscious. He was trying to find a way
to get out of the eagles's grasp. He had been in a lot of pain but he
held on to the one hope that the eagle would get tired and drop him
into the ocean. Then he would have to get passed the seals and
otters.
It had been a long time and the eagle was getting very close to
shore. The rocks were very jagged but there was a flat spot. It was
too far from the water. There was a small stream. He didn't have
much time. He had to get out of the eagle's grasp very soon! The
eagle was getting so tired that he could hardly hold on to the halibut. He was right over the creek bed. All of a sudden the eagle
could not hold on any longer. The halibut started to go unconscious and the last thing that he could remember was hitting the
creek bed and feeling his ribs smash to the sides of his body. Then
he went unconscious. The halibut was washed out to sea so fast
that the seals did not have time to notice him. He revived about an
hour later with an unbearable pain in his ribs. He could not swim.
Then he noticed what had happened to him. He was as flat as the
ocean floor and he had only one eye. He tried to move but he could
not. His ribs had pierced his sides. They stuck out about an inch
and a half.
In about a year these ribs grew fins on the tips of them . It took
him about 2 weeks before he could swim again. He did not live
very happily. He was never able to get into any of the good feeding
spots because he was always chased away.
From that day forth the halibut lays flat on the bottom of the
ocean and never comes to the surface.

Biographies
Nelson J. Augustine is a member of the MicMac First Nation at Big
Cove, New Brunswick. He was a student and the En'owkin Centre in
1991-92. He is currently employed by the Big Cove Band Council as a
technical writer and program coordinator. Nelson is planning to write
several full-length novels, one of which will include the passage, Joshua
and the Troop Leader, and the other he will co-author with another
MicMac individual.
Melissa Austin is 13 years old and she is from the Tsarlip Band on
Vancouver Island just north of Victoria. Melissa lives with her sister,
Alison who is 10 years old, and with her mother, Sheilia. Melissa
attends Bayside Middle School in Brentwood Bay. She enjoys school a
lot.
Rodney Bobiwash is an Anishinabe (Ojibway) from the Thessaon
Reserve on the north shore of Lake Huron, in Northern Ontario.
Rodney attended high school north of Sudbury and studied Native
Studies at Trent University in Peterborough and Commonwealth and
Imperial History at Oxford University in England. Rodney has been a
lecturer in the Native Studies Department at the University of Manitoba
and Trent University, worked at the Indian Commission of Ontario, the
Native Canadian Centre of Toronto, and the Congress of Aboriginal
People in Ottawa. He is a community activist and organizer who has
worked, written and spoken extensively in the areas of self-government,
anti racist strategies and hate groups, employment equity and Native
rights. He is currently the Director of First Nations House at the
University of Toronto.

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Bill Cohen is a member of the Okanagan Nation. He attended the
University ofLethbridge. He was published in Volume II of Gatherings.
He is also the illustrator for Jordan Wheeler's book Just A Walk, published by Theytus Books. Bill is currently teaching En'owkin Centre's
Adult Basic Education program at Westbank, B.C.
Frank Conibear is from the Lyackson Band (Coast Salish) on Valdez
Island. He grew up and lives in Victoria, B.C. He is a teacher/counselor
at Esquimalt Secondary, working primarily with First Nation students.
Frank has been published in Volume IV of Gatherings.

Kateri Damm is a member of the Chippewas ofNawash, Cape Croker
Band on Georgian Bay, Ontario and is of mixed Ojibway/Polish
Canadian/Pottawotami/English descent. She was born in Toronto. My
Heart Is A Stray Bullet was her first collection of poetry. Kateri was
published in Volume V of Gatherings.
Jack Forbes is the Director of Native Studies at the University of
California, his tribal affiliations are Delware-Lenpa and PowhantanRenape. He is the author of many books including, Columbus and
Cannibals. Jack is published in Volume V of Gatherings.
Raven Hail is an active member of the Cherokee Nation. Her poetry
and essays on Cherokee culture have appeared in various publications.
She has also written three novels and a cook book. Raven has been published in Volume V of Gatherings.
A.A. Hedge Coke: is of mixed-blood (Huron; Tsalagi; French
Canadian;Portuguese) She is currently a corresponding student in the
MFA in Writing program at Vermont College. Her full-length poetry
manuscript is being retained by a leading press, her full-length play is a
finalist in a major competition, and her novel in progress is a semi-finalist in line for a workshop fellowship,
Travis Hedge Coke is fourteen years old and is the son of A.A. Hedge
Coke.
Jose Garza (Blue Heron) is ofCoahuilteca/Mexican and Lipan Apache
heritage. He lives in western Pennsylvania. Jose has been published in
Volume V of Gatherings.
Barbara-Helen Hill is from Six Nations Grand River Territory, located
in southern Ontario. She is presently a student at the En'owkin Centre.
Barbara-Helen has completed a manuscript entitled: Shaking the Rattle,
which will be published by Theytus Books.
Debby Keeper is a Cree from the Fisher River First Nation in the
Interlake area of Manitoba. Debby is a visual artist and has been
published in Volume V of Gatherings.

Randy Lundy is of of Cree, Irish, Norwegian and Scottish descent. His
maternal roots lie in Northern Manitoba, along the eastern shores of
Reindeer Lake. He grew up in Hudson Bay, Saskatchewan and has been
living in Saskatoon since the fall of 1987. Randy is currently enrolled
in a Master of Arts program in English and plan to complete a thesis on
Native Literature.
Melvina B. Mack aka Nuxilhtimut is from the Nuxalkmc Nation on
the north coast of B.C. She has very recently completed the two year
term of Creative Writing at En'owkin International School of Writing at
Penticton, B.C. Her future endeavors are to return home for a spell
before continuing on to the University of Victoria.
Victoria Lena Manyarrows is Tsalagi/Eastern Cherokee and 39 years
old. She was raised alongside reservations and within communities in
North Dakota and Nebraska. As a writer, activist and artist, her goal is
to use written and visual images to convey and promote a positive
Native-based world view. Victoria's essays and poetry have been published in various Native and multicultural publications in the United
States and Canada.
Henry Michel is Secwepemc from the Sugar Cane Reserve in central
B.C. Henry has three poems published in Seventh Generation, Theytus
Books Ltd. and one poem in Voices Under One Sky, Nelson Canada Ltd.
Henry is also published in Volume V of Gatherings.
Tiffany Midge is a member of the Standing Rock Sioux Reservation
and has lived for the majority of her 29 years in the Seattle area. Some
of her previous publication credits include, Cutbank, The Ark, Blue
Mesa Review and The Raven Chronicles. Her first collection of poetry,
Outlaws, Renegades & Saints: Diary of a Mixed-Up Halfbreed was the
recipient of the 1994 Diane Decorah Memorial Poetry Award from the
Native Writer's Circle of the Americas, and will be published in late '95
by Greenfield Review Press.
Daniel David Moses is a Delaware poet and playwright from the Six
Nations lands on the Grand River in Southern Ontario. His publications
include the play Coyote City (Williams & Wallace 1990), and the book
of poems The White Line (Fifth House 1990) and was the co-editor of
An Anthology of Canadian Native Literature in English (Oxford 1992).
Daniel has also been published in Gatherings Vol. 3 (Theytus Books
1992).

#

Jacqueline Oker is a Beaver Indian from the Doig River Reserve near
Fort St. John, B.C. Jackie has been published in Volume V of
Gatherings.
Brenda Prince is Anishinabe from Winnipeg, Manitoba. She is mother
of Raven, Robin and Dakota. She is a second year student at the
En'owkin International School of Writing.
Sharron Proulx is a member of the Metis Nation of Alberta (Mohawk,
Huron, Algonquin, French and Irish ancestors). Sharron's working on a
book of stories and poems called she is reading her blanket with her
hands.
Armand Garnet Ruffo is Ojibway from Chapleau, Northern Ontario.
He currently divides his time between Northern Ontario, Ottawa, where
he is the Associate Director of the Centre of Aboriginal Education
Research and Culture, and Penticton, B.C. where he is an instructor at
the En'owkin International School of writing. Armand's first book of
poetry Opening In The Sky, has been published by Theytus Books Ltd.
Strong Morning Sky is from the Ojibway and Mic Mac Nation and is
currently attending the University of Winnipeg. Her poem was written
in memory of Anna Mae Aquash and Helen Betty Osborne.
Russell Teed is a Metis from Yellowknife, NWT. He has graduated from
the En'owkin International School of Writing in Penticton where he
founded and co-edited the Newsletter Tee-Pee Talk. He also co-edited
the Theytus anthology Webs of Wisdom. In 1993/94 he won the Simon
Lucas Jr. scholarship, and in 1994/95 he won the William Armstrong
scholarship for fiction. Russell is currently editing his first manuscript
of short stories.
Judith Mtn. Leaf Volborth: is of Blackfeet/Comanche descent. She
has been published in numerous periodicals, anthologies and magazines. Judith has also been featured in Volume II of Gatherings.
Other Contributors:
Annie Bosum
Isabelle Louise Hill
Dona F. Lewis
Josh Nelson
Dawne Starfire
Laurie Weahkee
Greg Young-Ing

GtltMtings is the only journal of Indigenous people's
literary writing in North America, and is compiled and
published annually by the En'owkin Centre and Tbeytus
Books Ltd. on behalf ofthe En'owkin International School
of Writing.

En'owldn International
School of Writing
The En'owkin International School of Writing and Fine Arts program is a two year credit program. leading to a certificate in First
Nations Creative Writing awarded jointly by the En 'owkin Centre
and the University of Victoria.

Established First Nation writers. dramatists. and visual artists work
directly with students to explore their own unique voice, thereby
promoting understanding of the beauty and complexity of First
Nations Peoples.
Courses focus on techniques and fonns of creative expression in
Poetry, Fiction, Drama, Creative Non-fiction. and Visual and Interdisciplinary Arts.
Admluloll Criteria:

• North American First Nations Ancestry.
• Eligible for university entrance. or have completion of one or more
years of an undergraduate program or mature student entry.
• A .submission of I0-1 S pages of original written work at the time
of application.
For full calendar and reantratlon Information contact:

Admissions:

En'owldn Centre
2S7 Brunswick Street
Penticton, B.C. V2A SP9
Telephone: (604) 493-7181
Fax: (604) 493-5302