THERINGS
THE EN'OWKIN JOURNAL OF FIRST
NORTH AMERICAN PEOPLES

Volume 1
Issue 1

Fall
1990

PREMIERE ISSUE

EN'OWKIN INTERNATIONAL
SCHO()L O~-, WRITING
The En'owkin International School of Writing assists First
Nations students to find their voices as writers. Through this
process, we promote understanding of the complexity of First
Nations peoples.
Students work directly with a team of renowned First
Nations writers. The program explores the unique cultural environment of First Nations peoples as reflected in their literature. The courses develop skills in the use of metaphor such
as the coyote, the horse, and the owl. Student writers
develop their skills in a stimulating atmosphere of encouragement and discovery.

Admission Criteria:
North American First Nations Ancestry.
Eligible for university entrance, or have completed one or
more years of an undergraduate program.
A submission of 10-15 pages of original written work at the
time of application.
Tuition: Tuition is $2000.00 each year. Books and supplies
are estimated at $400.00.
Classes begin the first week of September.

For full calendar and registration information contact:
Admissions,
En'owkin Centre, 257 Brunswick Street
Penticton, B.C. V2A 5P9 Canada
Telephone (604) 493-7181
Fax (604) 493-2882

GATHERINGS
The En 'owkin Journal of First
North American Peoples
SURVIVAL ISSUE

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Theytus Books, Penticton, British Columbia

GATIIERINGS:
The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples
Volume 1 Issue 1 August 1990
Published annually by Theytus Books Ltd. for the En'owkin Centre
International School of Writing
Managing Editor:

David Gregoire

Associate Editors:

Maria Baptiste
Forrest Funmaker
Conrad George
Brian Scrivener

Arnie Louie
Leona Lysons
Jeff Smith

Ann Wallace

Page Composition:

Jeff Smith, Manager
Theytus Books Ltd.

Cover Design:

David Gregoire/Jeff Smith

Cover Art;

Jeannette Armstrong/Lee Maracle/Forrest
Funmaker /Jeff Smith

Forrest Funmaker
En'owkin Centre

Subscriptions are $13.00 for individuals and $14.00 for institutions. A price list
will be mailed on request.

Please inquire about our advertising rates and contributors' guidelines.
Please send submissions , letters, and subscriptions to 'Gatherings, c/ o En'owkin
Centre '157 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.

'Bicenti.' by Anna Lee Walters has previously appeared in Tarasque II,
published by Albuquerque United Artists 1985, Albuquerque, NM.
Reprinted by permission.
Copyright remains with the artist and/or author. No portion of this journal may be
rep!<?(iuced in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author
and/ or artist.

Typeset by Theytus Books Ltd. Printed and bound in Canada
We gratefully acknowledge Canada Council for their financial
assistance in the production this premiere issue.

ISSN 1180-0666

WILLIAMS-WALLAC="""'E=PUB=L=ISHE=RS=
New literary works from Canada's leading
Multicultural publisher.

Guest Editorial:

Copyright © 1990 for the authors

·@
Daughters of the Sun, Women of the Moon
Anthology of Canadian Black Women Poets
Edited by Ann Wallace
Th(s_ major anthology brings the richness and diversity of
wntmgs from the diaspora.
ISBN 0-8$795-091-4
$11.95

Another Way to Dance
Anthology of Asian Canadian Poets
Edited by Cyril Dabydeen
~ celebration of life and living by some of Canada's
finest poets.
ISBN 0-88795-084-1
$11.95

Cayote City - A Play
by Daniel David Moses
This en~hrall~ng play looks at the lives of Native people
caught m a life and death struggle for spiritual survival.
ISBN 0-88795-090-6
$7. 95
TO ORDER BOOKS: DEC Book Distribution, 229 College
Street, Toronto MST I R4, Canada
INLAND Book Company Inc.
254 Bradley Street, East Haven, Conn.
06512 U.S.A.

En'owkin International School of Writing
A message from

Jeannette Armstrong
and

Joy Kogawa
"As writers we want to ask
you to consider tlte following

FIRST NATIONS HOUSE OF LEARNING

t111d i111·est i11 a t/r('{lm

UBC

we botlt slwre"

•

Dedicated to quality preparation in all fields of post-secondary

•

study.
Quality education means relevance to the philosophy and
values of First Nations.

•
•
•
•
•

COURSES AND PROGRAMS AVAILABLE
Native Indian Teacher Education Program (NITEP)
Ts"kel Program (M.Ed., M.A., Ed.D., Ph.D)

Native Law Program
First Nations Health Care Professions Program
Courses related to First Nations are available in a variety of
Faculties, Schools and Departments.
OPPORTUNITIES IN CREATNE WRITING!
The Department of Creative Writing at UBC and the First Nations
House of Learning invites you to explore creative writing
opportunities leading to a Bachelor's Degree in Fine Arts.

Interested? Write for our Calendar!
First Nations House of Learning, UBC
6365 Biological Sciences Road, Vancouver, B.C. V6T 1W5
Telephone: (604) 222-894ol Fax: (604) 222-8944

All students must qualify to attend, all stu-

The wisdom and strength
of ancient cultures should be written,
First Nations story-tellers
should be heard,

dents are from First Nations, and not ail
students have financial support.

the path of healing should be shared,
the dominant world-view
should be challenged.

literature, we also believe that there are indi-

We ask you to share in our dream to teach
and train First Nations writers. Each year 40
First Nations student writers are immersed in
an "apprenticeship" at the En'owkin International School of Writing.

This Is a unique and exciting 2-year, university-credited special program; with the added
attraction of a First Nations Writer-in -Residence and full complement of Indigenous
writers.

We believe that Canada will be enriched by
hearing the voice of First Nations through
vidual Canadians who wish to make this possible.

We invite you to invest in the future. Invest
in the development of First Nations literature. Invest in these student writers. $8,000
is needed by each student for each semester. Some students qualify for government
aid but many gifted potential writers do not.
Please Join us ! We offer you the opportunity to become a supporter of the En'owkin
International School of Writing.

Please 1111 out and return the attached form

Yes!~l~elpWith-; Tax-CreditableDonatio; o f : - - - - - - - -

[J $25

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Name _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ __
Address

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Please make your choque payable to:
En'owkln International School of Writing et:
257 Brunswick Street
Penticton, B.C. V2A 5'p9
~

Please put my name on your
supporter, malling 11s1!

Tax Registration Number·
Rovonuo Canada·
070604-5026

('

•r','!J,,)·\

Table of Contents
Introduction
Editorial ............... .
Guest Editorial .

···············································································6

7

Ask Me Again
Kerrie Chamley
Concepts of An&!r, Identity and Power and the Vision in
the Writings ana Voices of First Nations Women............ 10
Joseph Bruchac
Routine Check ..

..... 23

Anna Lee Walters
BicentL.

······················ ·······························24

Annharte

Lee Maracle
Review: Being on the Moon

For Elijah Harper ................ .

................41
........... 43

Daniel David Moses

lat Quarter Song ... .
Tired Song ............. .
Forrest A. Funmaker

Alice Lee

···························44
······························44

Nokomis .................................................................... .45
The Story of Harry Loon .. ........... .............. ..... ............. .46
Bear Mirror ......................................................................... 47
You Rattle We Hum .................................................... 48
Flower Day ................................................................49

Maria Baptiste

... so

Dream Maker.
lacquer Red .

. 51

Greg Young-Ing
In Another World ..

.... ·················52

Redhand
The Fire Is My Mother ..

. ........... ················54

Spirit Deer
Richard Armstrong
Spirit Deer

............................ 56

Ravensky...

. .. ·················· .............................. 61

The Buffalo Man ..

...................................................... 62

Tim Michel
T. Mitchel Staats

Mary Lou deBassige
Bear With Me ...
Alive Spirits Simplicity ...
Armand Garnet-Ruffo
BearDeath ........... .
Creating A Country ..

...........63
............... 67
.69
················70

Shirley Eagle Tailfeathers
Red and White .....

.. :.. 72

DonWynde
A Childhood or Was It ....

Myrtle Johnson

.. 73
.. 74
... 75

.Bright White One ..
LikeAChild ........... .
This Windy Day ... .

················

.... 109

Andy P. Nieman
A Native Eider's Solitude ...

············111

Sheila Dick
L. Cheryl Blood

My Companion ..

.... 76

Pow Wow Fever ....

. 113

Karen Coutlee
Seagull
Arnold Louie

Seagull ..... .

.. 78

Seduction ....

81

ToMom...........................................
Thank You For Giving Me Birth..

Fishermen

........115
........... .116

.............

Glen James
Nana

Fishermen ..

. ········118

Gerald Etienne
Mary Ann Gerard

Christmas Day. .. ... . .. .. . .
Christmas Day Part 2 ..... .

.... 82
83

Eon Ago ..... .
We Cry .... .

.. 84
... 85

Granny ..

. . ... .

Plenty of Lore, Plenty of Land .
Deb Clement

Colleen Seymour
Donna K. Goodleaf

Just Beginniny

... 86

.

I Know Who I Am.

. ..

Kerrie Charnley
Journey.
Gooseneck
Art Napoleon
Cody Williams
Joann Thom

Erie! Deranger
Milk Runnin'
Leonard Fisher Jr.
KateriDamm

Rain Thoug_hts ....
Chris and t;ary .

Changing Song ...

Niemiah.

... 94

Training For Motherhood .

.. 95

Untitled ...

..... 96

Randy Fred

Life.

... 97

Alvin Manitopyes

A Dear Friend's Battle
Testimonial ..

.. 105

·············· 129

Warrior's Winter .......... .
Diptera ............... .
..
Hey, Mr. Music Man ...

....... 131

Concrete City . .. .
...
Stranded On An Island
Doorway..
··

133
.... 134
. ............. 135

... 130

Tracey Bonneau

Garry Gottfriedson
Bureaucrats ..
Crystal Globe ..

.................... 136
······ ........ 137

Downtown Main Drag .

.... 138

Sweet Romance Junkie .

············ ..... 139

Indian Lad In The City ..

..... 140

Eileen Burnett

. . 100

.... 104

..127

Duane Marchand

.. 88

... 103

······················

Leona Lysons

.... 87

Suicidal Tendency ..

·······························JV

.

Changing Song

.. 90

Milk Runnin' ....

. ....................... .123

Cecilia Lake

Gooseneck.

Leah E. Messer

.... 122

Davey C. Maurice

Oratory
Jeannette Armstrong

Margaret Warbick
Conrad George

The Disempowerment of First North America Native
Peoples ancl Empowerment Through Their Writing. . . .141
Author Biographies ...

....... 147

A Gathering of the Spirits by Ann Wallace
EDITORIAL

Ctl

reetings to all readers of the premiere issue of "Gather
ings": The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples".
It gives me great pleasure to ex.tend a warm welcome to you. As a
Native individual of the Okanagan Indian Nation, I am pleased to
have been given the opportunity to read ~d eni?y ~11 th~ ~tings
that were submitted for consideration for mclus10n m this Journal.
The theme of 'survival' is symbolic of the struggle of our
people to retain traditional values. All of the people who submitted
work are themselves survivors of the oppression we have all faced.
The writings contained in this issue reflect that survival culturally
and physically. They also show that we continue to rely on the
guidance of the creator, and the gen~ine kindness, encouragement
and understanding that we share with each other.
Through our oral tradition, we have alwa~s shared o~r
knowledge, wisdom, pain, joy and suffering. ~e wntten wor~s m
this journal are an expression of our oral traditions. These_ wntten
words offer greetings and help in the process of cleansing and
healing.
. •
Th
The selection of the following pieces was difficu1t. ere
were a number of excellent pieces that were turned down b~use
they did not fit the theme. We urge those people who submitted
work to re-submit for the next issue of the journal. Though these are
a few selected writings by our people, I am sure there are many
other Native writers out there who are a part of this literary cultural
renaissance. I encourage you all to continue writing and to share
with others.
Enjoy and may our Creator guide you always.
David Gregoire
Managing Editor

6

"A People without the knowledge of their past history, origin and
culture is like a tree without roots."
Marcus Mosiah Garvey
In this Premiere issue of "Gatherings: The En'owkin Journal of First North American People", there can be no doubt that the
First Nation People have come into their own as writers. This
should quell, once and for all, the debate that they are incapable of
retelling their myths and legends or writing their own stories.
This issue has brought together the writing of both men
and women writers, new and established, and covers a wide range
of genres.
One of the major essays in the journal: Concept of Anger,
Identity, Power and Vision in Writings and Voices of First Nations
Women, gives an indepth look into the loss of language. The silence
of Native people is fully explained because to lose one's language
is to lose one's humanity. It is this loss that has made this new
generation of writers embark upon the road to both cultural and
self-discovery. They will no longer accept being stereotyped or
being positioned as orphans in their own homeland. For in this land
their history and culture bloomed. They developed highly sophisticated political systems; they were the first ecologists and their
spirituality continues to provide them with strength.
With the coming of the white man, their world was shattered, their sacred words denigrated. However, something wonderful and positive is beginning to happen - the First Nation
Peoples have decided to take back control of their lives and their
culture. The glaring and falsifying of history will be corrected.
The En'owkin Centre, in British Columbia, is at the centre
of change. Writers and students can attend classes to improve their
writing skills, learn forgotten languages, do research and listen to
the legends and myths of their Elders. This remarkable writing
centre, the first of its kind in North America, is the culmination of
years of hard work by many people. This is not just a school - but
a spiritual space - where many people are dedicated to preserving
their culture, religion and language, where they know the torch of
knowledge is powerful. A torch that cannot be allowed to be
dimmed, a torch that ensures their future. These visionaries and

7

Ann Wallace
their communities have created their modem kiva, where heritage
is once more protected and safe.
On a personal note. In March of this year, I was privileged
to experience the En'owkin Centre. This visit will go down as one
of the most memorable days I have spent anywhere in a very long
time. What made it so memorable was the warm welcome I received, the prayers of the Elders, the hospitality of the women and
men who work at the Centre and the many visitors who dropped in.
As the day progressed, I was given manuscripts to read; and the
talent and creativity of the young writers overwhelmed me. Towards the end of the day, I sat beside a young girl of about four
years old. She was reading a book and as I looked over her shoulders, I realized that the book was written in English and the Okanagan language. How lucky these children and writers are to have
an environment that will not only nurture them but will also stimulate their creativity and whet their appetites for more knowledge
about their world and their people. This wonderful journal is a
celebration of the human spirit which has overcome adversity and
pain.
To the visionaries and the benefactors - May you always
walk in Beauty.

8

ASK ME AGAIN

9

INTRODUCTION

Concepts of Anger, Identity and Power
and the Vision in the Writings
and
Voices of First Nations Women
by Kerrie Charnley

For the past five hundred or so years the voices of Native
women have been silenced by the onslaught of European immigration to Turtle Island.(1) These new immigrants brought a new
order of governing structures and belief systems with them and
they imposed these on the land and the nations of people living
here, who already had their own governing structures and belief
systems honed over thousands of years. The First Nations were
matriarchal and co-operative while these new people were patriarchal and individualistic. These two differences continue to have an
impact on all peoples and nations living on this land today. In order
for the Europeans to obtain control over the First Nations peoples
and get control over the land and her resources they silenced what
was central to the perpetuation of the matriarchal and co-operative
spirit and values of First Nations: the voices of First Nations
women.
The catalysts that helped break the silence for Native women
were the far reaching and liberating forces of the women's movement and the influences of Marx's analysis of class oppression.
Other catalysts that helped pave the way for Native women breaking silence were the American Indian Movement, the growth of
Native political and cultural organizations and the environmental
movement.
At this point one might ask the shadowed question "If so
much liberating action was happening for women and Native
people in the sixties and seventies why weren't Native women
being heard then?" The answer to this question lies in the happenstance of First Nations' five hundred year history. The voices of
Native women continued to be silenced in the sixties and seventies
by the racist and patriarchal children of colonialism. By this time the
racists and patriarchy adherents dressed in both white and red
jackets. Weakened and weathered over the years, Native men and
women had begun to believe and use the racist and patriarchal tools
of colonialism for their own individualistic bartering for a place
within the competitive neo-european status quo. There were a few
1. Before the last five hundred years of European occupation the differing First Nations
had their own names for this continent. For instance the Haudenosaunee called the
continent "Turtle Island" in it's English translation. It is probable that all the nations
had a name for the continent since there were trade routes known to go as far as South
America in pre-colonial times.

10

11

Kerrie Charnley

Kerrie Charnley
fire weeds however who resisted the brainwashing and refused to
be silent. Those who wrote published and spoke to a small audience.
Nevertheless they harboured a voice for those of us who did not
have one. The traditional values of co-operation, womanpower and
the sacredness of words has persisted subversively over the course
of five hundred years of silence. In combination with Marxism and
the liberation movements of the sixties, these word warriors are
being heard.
·
In the seventies the autobiography Halfbreed was published by Maria Campbell. This marked the beginning of a movement. Lee Maracle published her autobiography, Bobbi Lee: Indian
Rebel, at about the same time but due to politics and bookmarket
trends her book did not reach the wide audiences Halfbreed did. In
1983 Native women writers got public attention at the Women and
Words Society's inaugural women writers' conference in Vancouver. This conference marked a path towards the history-making
workshops and readings hosted by Native women writers at the
19883rdinternationalFeministBookFairinMontreal. LeeMaracle,
Jeannette Armstrong, Paula Gunn Allen, Janet Campbell- Hale,
Chrystos, Joy Harjo, Lenore Keeshig-Tobias, Midnight Sun, Beth
Brant, Barbara Smith, Gloria Anzuldua and Marilou Awaikta have
all published within the past three years. Some of these Native
women are participating in writer's conferences such as those
already mentioned and others like the Vancouver Writer's Festival,
and the ''Telling It'' conference held in Vancouver recently.
This paper will look at the words of recently published
Native writers Lee Maracle, Jeannette Armstrong, Chrystos, Paula
Gunn Allen and reflect on some of the concerns these women have
about themselves, their people, and the world. This paper will
reflect particularly on the silence and angerof oppressed people, the
function of image-making, identity creating and erasing of invisibility that are a part of writing. Also discussed will be the world view
of First Nations people that has empowered them throughout their
long history. For the purposes of this paper because some Native
women writer's also call themselves "women of color'' there will be
points where this term will be used when referring to a concept that
has been discussed by a writer who identified herself as a "woman
of color''. It will reveal the philosophical and political base the
writers are writing from. This paper will not address the mechanics
of Native women's literature. To understand those mechanics it is
crucial first to understand the forces that brought those words into
being.
12

The beginning will look at what silences us; the second part
will look at our response to the forces which silence us, anger and
anger's relationship to writing. The third part will look at how
Native women writers are creating their own images of themselves
through the written word. The last part will look at the world view
of Native people and how a peoples' world view is reflected in the
language of that people. As well this paper will look at how the
relationship between language and world view is a fundamental
concern and force in Native women's literature.
WHY ARE YOU BEING SO SILENT?

In silence there is no movement, no change. Good odds for
victimization, powerlessness. In breaking silence, there is movement, change, transformation. Creation and birth. Breaking the
silence for Native women is a major step towards stopping the
forces that have been silencing us. However it must be done on our
own terms or the voice will not be our own and it will not truly
empower us.
A white woman at a women writers' conference made
reference to the question why are some women silent. The majority
and the only ones who did not speak were the women of color. This
woman said it was probably due to the fact that these women were
not used to speaking! This is typical of what a woman of color must
put up with over and over again. White people speak and make
assumptions about us right in front of our very faces and ears as if
we don't even exist or have a voice and all the while taking up the
space we could be using forour voices. Chrystos' poem "Maybe We
Shouldn't Meet If There Are No Third World Women Here" expresses a rhetorical question in response to this kind of familiar
experience: "How can we come to your meetings if we are invisible". (Chrystos, 1988, 13) The workshop's topic of discussion
"Living the great novel versus writing one" did not seek the
perspective of women of color who know most the meaning of
living the great novel. It is our silence that is addressed more often
than our voices. There is many a message to be found in silence if
one chooses to hear them. Finally, at the end of the workshop, out
of the body of a brown woman a voice rose. It was a voice of
frustration, anger, pain, sadness and it was our voice. Too often the
only voice white women actually hear is the hurting or angry voice
of women of color. It is sad this woman was forced into her
13

Kerrie Chamley

Kerrie Chamley

unvaliant and lonely position without a functional structure of colored support. Instead she fled from the room, and the topic of the
one-sided discussion continued as it had before, in our silence.
This is the kind of thing that impacts every single woman of
color who is' conscious of that color-white dynamic; this is the kind
of thing that makes us angry. In Chrystos' same poem she reflects
on this situation and the anger that she consequently feels: ''My
mouth cracks in familiar shock my eyes flee to the other faces where
my rage desperation fear pain ricochet a thin red scream How can
you miss our brown and golden in this sea of pink...Bitter boiling I
can't see you." (Chrystos, 1988, 13)
Someone at this same workshop said that anger is something women writers should address because of its paralysing effect
on one's ability to write. She also said that anger stems from fear.
It is true that anger is something Native women writers should
address because it is a very significant theme and force in our
writing. However the concept of fear as a root of anger is not true
for women of color. The anger is a direct result of feeling and in fact
being powerless and unheard by the dominant European.
Much of our writing has as its theme anger at those conditions and forces that have sought to render Native people powerless and voiceless: Residential schools, the Church and its missionaries; white tyrannical teachers trying to make Indian students
believe their ways, beliefs, language, religion, and physical being
are of no value; child abduction, rape, murder, sterilization, germ
warfare in the form of diseased blankets, and even up until just
thirty short years ago the denial of legal and political representation. We were not allowed to vote for the leaders of our own land.
In terms of this struggle we are engaged in Paula Gunn
Allen says, in her book The Sacred Hoop, that ''For women this
means fighting ... sometimes violent and always virulent racist
attitudes and behaviours directed against us by an entertainment
and educational system that wants only one thing from Indians: our
silence, our invisibility, our collective death." She goes on to cite an
example of what kinds of things are being done to us collectively:
"'It is believed that at least 80 percent of the Native Women seen at
the regional psychiatric service center...have experienced some sort
of sexual assault."'(Gunn Allen, 1987, 119) Not only do native
women have to deal with the hardships the average white person
has but our load is magnified by the poverty, racist sexism, without
the benefit of coping mechanisms, because our family structures

were decimated. If there is fear beneath our anger it is the fear that
our multi-generational anger might be unjustly and accidentally
hurled on to one of our own or on the innocent or on one of the truth
seekers in our lives.
In I Am Woman Lee Maracle articulates the condition of
this anger: "I am tom apart and terrorized, not by you, my love, but
by the war waging inside me...Now you will be watchful, wary,
waiting for my hysteria ..Just as I am on guard against your anger."
(Maracle, 1988, 39) The victimofour large and looming anger, is our
very selves. We are powerless to act out anger any other way. The
suicide rate of young Native people is now eerily famous and this
occurrence is mourned in Slash, I Am Woman, as well as in Paula
Gunn Allen's The Sacred Hoop. We tum anger inward because it is
hard to make out who the one real enemy is- a belief system, there
is no target at which to aim our very reasonable and natural anger.
This dilemma is found in Lee's poem ''Hate": "Blinded by niceties
and polite liberality we can't see our enemy, so, we'll just have to kill
each other."(Maracle, 1988, 12) By illuminating the real enemies,
real sources, from which our self-inflicted pains/violence stem Lee
clarifies for Native people, what is clearly going on and what the
dynamics and forces are which have shaped our history and which
are shaping our lives today. We have a place to start to change those
conditions in our lives which oppress us, a place and knowledge
with which to empower ourselves. Perhaps the fear that woman
was speaking of was the fear of where the power of one's anger will
be directed. Let it be clarified that the real root to all of this silence,
anger, fear is the very real racism Native women are trying to
survive. Racism and sexism implicate one's whole being, it is hard
~ot to reflect on these experiences frequently and almost obsessively. Much of Lee Maracle's book I Am Woman addresses the
reality of racism and internalized racism. In speaking about the
people she loves she says: "In all of the stories runs a single common
thread; racism is for us, not an ideology in the abstract, but a very
real and practical part of our lives. The pain, the effect, the shame
ar~ ~11 real." (Maracle, 1988, 2) We are able to survive through
In breaking silence we can transform anger and combat
~acism. The act of writing is an incredibly liberating force. An
ill~s~~tion of this is ~n in Lee Maracle's story about the "L'ilwat
Child who was demed a seat on the school bus until the teacher's
authority, not the child's human rights, coerced the rude European

14

15

WI'Iting.

Kerrie Charnley

Kerrie Charnley

children to move over for the child. Lee's response to this exemplifies how writing out one's anger can be useful when she says, ''I let
the scream sink slowly into oblivion. I went home to scream my rage
to a blank sheet of paper. I had not moved to comfort that child
either. I betrayed myself yet again. For my hungry, aching spirit, the
pen is mightier than the sword." (Maracle, 1988, 109)
Through expressing our anger towards what is really working against us we can prevent it from turning inward on ourselves.
Chrystos illustrates the many sources of her anger and how this
anger is a strength in her poem "I Walk In The History of My
People": "In the scars of my knees you can see children tom from
their families bludgeoned into government schools. Anger is my
crutch I hold myself upright with it my knee is wounded see How
I Am Still Walking." (Chrystos, 1988, 7) In order to know what is
really working against us we have to be able question, reflect on
one's experience and see it in relation to and in dynamic with other
people and environs. What better a place to paintthe picture of one's
experience and relationships than on paper. On paper we can do
something at times and in situations where it may not be possible to
do anything else. On paper we can confront the enemy who is not
embodied in any one human being. We can question our thinking,
we can address someone who is simply too powerful to confront in
person. This is the power of writing, taking action with the voice and
hand, moving thought into physical being, taking it further than
one's mind will allow and giving it away to other people. We
nurture thought and re-create the world: Woman-word-uniting
power.

culture. In creating one's own images and getting one's word out to
the public "at large" validation is experienced by the author and the
reader. The writer is reflected within the word on the page and the
reader's self image is reflected in common experiences and views
shared by the author. Alienation and isolation are broken, transformed into camaraderie. Validation is experienced when the reader
is stimulated by the author's words to make active changes in her
own life and world, as well as changes in the way one thinks.
Lee Maracle creates a positive image for Native people
when she says "I want to look across the table in my own kitchen
and see, in the brown eyes of the man that shares my life, the beauty
of my own reflection.. .l want the standard for our judgement of our
brilliance, our beauty and our passions, to be ourselves." (Maracle,
1988, 19) She also says that "By standing up and laying myself bare,
I erased invisibility as a goal for the young Native women around
me." (Maracle, 1988, 9) Chicano writer Gloria Anzuldua says,

ERASING INVISIBIL11Y AND CREATING
OUR OWN IDENTITIES IN WORDS

Besides transforming anger and combatting racism writing
is also an excellent way to create our own images of who we are and,
erase invisibility and proclaim Native men and women as distinct
and valuable people. In a world where Native people are more or
less invisible in all modes of reflection - media, decision-making positions, positions of power, education curriculum, etc. - and are
viewed as secondary citizens, media communication is an effective
way of breaking the silence and changing the false images of native
people. Communication allows and sometimes encourages alternatives to the institutional political and social structures which maintain and reflect the racist and patriarchal attitudes of the European
16

For a woman of color to write ... personally and
also about her culture ...she goes back to her past...
states of depression ... of anger ... of being
violated ...and she has to recreate them. She's got
to reckon with these things that make up the
abyss. ("Remembering and Subverting Strategies
in the Literature of Women of Color".June 1988)
Glotja also says that women of color have many different states of
consciousness.
Between subculture and mass culture, between
male and female, between the ideologies that are
feminine and the ideologies that are patriarchal,
the splicing of different culture shifting events..
shifting perspectives, and woman of color does
this in her writing. (ibid. June 1988)
We are a different people even from our ancestors but we are still
First Nations people, Sto:lo, Dene, Okanagan, Cree etc. Cultures are
not static they are in constant movement and change and development and so it is with First Nations cultures. Gloria Anzuldua says
that because our culture has been segmented by the genocidal
actions and we have become so overloaded with misbeliefs about
17

Kerrie Chamley

Kerrie Chamley

ourselves "we've taken the occupied self and tried to recover the
essential self by deconstructing history and deconstructing cultural
theories according to white people and then putting all the pieces of
ourselves together in our writing, in our art, in our thought." She
says that somebody who reads her writing might say "it's really
disorganized, it's not structured. But the structure is a different
kind of structure. It's not a linear structure, it's not a common
logical structure, it's not a hierarchical structure but it is a ..."
circular and organic structure based on the matriarchal and cooperative, cultural thought of her lndianness. Native women are
faced with the limits of the English language to express their
experience and world view.

at a point in her life when white doctors told her she was dying. She
connected and worked with and for her community and undertook
spiritual healing and this coupled with the love she shared with her
partner brought her back to life. Jeannette Armstrong's character
Slash reaches into his spiritual understanding and goes into his past
to bring forth his song at a time when all his physical, emotional and
mental resources are spent. At this time when life was unbearable,
suicide seemed to be his only alternative but it was his spiritual
understanding that empowered him to carry on, eventually uniting
all aspects of his once tom apart life and reconciling the past with the
present "The song vibrated through every fibre of my body like a
light touch of wings, and the hard ball inside my chest seemed to
melt and spread like warm mist across my chest ...I couldn't stop for
a long time .. .! felt okay for the first time in about three or four
years."(Armstrong, 1985, 68)
.
Paula Gunn Allen quotes Laguna/Sioux writer Carol Lee
Sanchez as saying, she,

BREAKING SILENCE AND PERPETUATING
THE POWER OF THE INDIAN WORLD VIEW

Besides transforming anger and combatting racism through
creating new images and expressions of who we are, by writing we
can make changes in the thinking of Europeans. We can reinforce
and perpetuate the values and belief systems, our traditions - the
fundamental power of our existence. One cannot understand or
define in it's entirety the philosophy of entire nations of people in
a paragraph however important fundamental differences can be
explained. In Indian thought things are whole co-operative and
balanced. In European thought things are separated and put in a
hierarchical order. The European sees spirit as a human derivative
and associated with death. The Native person sees spirit as being
the essence of the physical. It comes from within and is associated
with life force. Spirit never comes or goes. It always is a matter of
existence. Paula Gunn Allen points out
In English, one can divide the universe into two
parts: the natural and the supernatural. This
necessarily forces English-speaking people into a
position of alienation from the world they live in.
Such isolation is entirely foreign to American
Indian thought. (Gunn Allen, 1986, 60)
It is spiritual connectedness between and within all that exists that
has been one of our greatest weapons, healers, liberators in our
battles against genocide. This view of the world persists.
Lee Maracle talks about how she relied on spiritual healing
18

"writes as a way of connecting to her people...What
she does is ... knit the old ways to the new circumstances in such away thatthe fundamental worldview of the tribe will not be distorted or destroyed. In her task she uses every resource of her
present existence: technology and myth, politics
and motherhood, ritual balance and clearsighted
utterance, ironic comments and historical perspective." (Gunn Allen, 1986, 180)
The work of expressing a highly sophisticated world view into the
limiting structures of the English language is arduous. It is undertaken by those with courage, self-reliance, imagination, and a need
for justice, balance, wholeness. The powerful connection between
language and thought is exemplified by Jeannette Armstrong's
statement,
"Non-sexist thinking is deeply imbedded in our
cultures and must be seen from a broader perspective than the warped point of view of a culture whose orientation is always male or female
oriented rather than human oriented. (Armstrong,
1988, "Voices of Native Women in Literature")
19

Kerrie Charnley

Kerrie Charnley

This is reflected in her Okanagan language which has no "pronouns
to refer to he or she. There is no way we can refer to he or she in any
sense of the word. People are addressed and referred to by name,
by occupation, by familial role, or by clan."(Armstrong, 1988, "Voices
of Native Women in Literature") Further, the power of her people's
thinking and language is reflected by the fact that ''Rape was totally
unheard of in pre-contact cultures. In particular in Okanagan
culture it was totally unheard of not because of the punishments but
because of the high elevation of human dignity and personal
freedoms that we enjoyed." Jeannette ends by saying that writing is
itself a sacred act because,

one's being and existence. The loss of much of our languages, has
greatly silenced Native people. The English language is limiting in
it's patriarchal definitions and structures which leave very little
room for ceremonial or spiritual understandings of relationships.
The English language does not fit well with the belief systems and
world view of Native people. We were supposed to forget our own
world view and language and adopt the language and world view
of the European.. Some bought it and some didn't, many didn't
survive the brutalizations but some have and are seeking justice for
our people. Paula Gunn Allen states "the fragmentation of consciousness that might be expected to result from ...massive cultural
breakdown is a surface breakdown ...Indian values, perceptions,
and understandings have clung tenaciously to life, informing the
work of writers and artists as they inform the lives of all Indian
people. (Gunn Allen, 1986, 182-183) The battle is still going on and
the front seems to be ideology, the weapon the word, and the action,
informing both First Nations people and people from other nations
who we live with about the healing and empowering values of our
traditions and world view. With history being made up of the
voices of all nations, all peoples instead of just one European
people, the sand will be taken out of the eyes of Europeans showing
them what their own history and world view has been doing all
these years. A real new world shall be born.

"...it manifests thought which originates within
the spiritual world and manifests itself into the
physical world through word. It makes it physical by transferring by word, understanding'. Understanding being the foundation of our Beings,
therefore being holy. So we say to people speak
softlybuttruthfully, whenitisnecessary,anditis
now necessary." (Armstrong, 1988)
We understand that to truly change this world we cannot
react in a European way. We do not wantthis world to continue it's
debasement of humanity and the natural balance of the earth. We
do not want to continue the violence and oppression that has
become the way of the European. Lee says in her "L'ilwat Child"
story that "Europe has much to learn from our example. Be ever so
thankful that I have not forgotten my ancestors and looked upon
myself as just a person or I should have exploded in good European
style on those children. I should have slapped them both." (Maracle,
1988, 109) We must use our own understandings of wholeness and
balance and not bend to the violent means of domination and
separation that history has proven are the European's goals: "divide and conquer'' as the old adage goes. ''Unite and nurture"
would be more to the First Nations person's way of thinking. ·
SUMMARY
To a people whose word has such fundamental significance
to their lives, to be stripped of their language is a devastating act of
genocide. The significance of being denied the physical and spiritual power of language is to be denied that which is at the core of
20

CONCLUSION
In referring to the words, artistry, and political sight of Lee
Maracle, along with other examples from the works and words of
Crystos, Jeannette Armstrong, Paula Gunn Allen, Gloria Anzuldua,
it is apparent that embodied and working within the written
testimonies of Native women are empowerment and healing bound
to the spiritual power essence that exists within all that is and all that
connects. In their writing they are breaking silence, fighting rascism
and patriarchy, subverting English and creating their own language, putting the English word to the test of an Indian world view,
reconciling their tribal pasts with their individual presents, empowering and transforming anger into knowing, self-inspiring and
inspiring others, dealing with the internalized rascism, uniting
powers, transforming the spiritual to the physical, maintaining the
21

Kerrie Chamley
world view, values and responsibility to the oral/word sacredness
perpetuated by their grandmothers, maintaining an~ ~nlivening
their spiritual understanding and connectedness w1thm all that
exists, organic or not.
The boundaries of essay writing prevent furthe~ and more
in depth analysis and celebration of Native w~men's rece~t ~ritten
works. However it is hoped that further studies and scrutinies and
appreciation of these works will soon be undertaken by ~~ose who
are looking for healing, empow~rment, and hope!'11 v~s.10ns of a
universe where there is humanity; where there 1s spmt; where
difference is celebrated, lived and loved. These women's words are
recreating and creating their individual selves, the nations_ and
communities they are members of and the world of all that exists.
SELECTED BIBLIOGRAPHY
BOOKS

Allen, Paula Gunn. The Sacred Hoop: Recovering the Feminine in
American Indian Traditions. Boston: Beacon Press, 1986.
Armstrong, Jeannette. Slash. Penticton: Theytus Books, 1985.
Chrystos. Not Vanishing. Vancouver: Press Gang Publishers, 1988.
Maracle, Lee. I Am Woman. North Vancouver: Write-on Press
Publishers Ltd., 1988.
SOUND RECORDINGS
Anzuldua, Gloria. Remembering and Subverting Strategies in the
Literature of Women of Color. Cassette of workshop, Third
International Feminist Book Fair. Montreal: June 1988.
Armstrong,Jeannette. Voices of Native Women in Literature, Cassette
of workshop, Third International Feminist Book Fair. Montreal:
June 1988.

22

Routine Check by Joseph Bruchac
Late winter snow
feathers the sky
as a voice on the line
from some place
I have never been
asks me if I remember
who called my number
from Des Moines, Iowa
on the 17th of September
I don't know anyone
in Des Moines,
but then, disembodied
that business-like voice
suggests the caller
may have been
an Indian
from Rosebud, South Dakota
Leonard Crow Dog,
I think,
but before I can speak,
I am asked this question:
By any chance,
do I belong
to their religion?
What religion is that?
You know,
The Sun Dance.

Late winter snow
falls on the Paha Sapa
the sacred Black Hills
which know no religion
which cannot be owned
like credit card numbers
There, routine checks
at Pine Ridge and Rosebud
tum up Indians,
snow in open mouths
government bullets
in their backs
There, at roadblocks
manned by BIA ghosts
voices ask
in that efficient tone
neutral as white paper
Do you belong?
They receive no answer,
only the wind
the spirit of Crazy Horse
thrusting his pony
against the snow,
believing in spring

May I ask, I ask
What this is for?
Just a routine check,
just a routine check,
just a routine check
on a credit card number.

23

Anna Lee Walters

Maya sat on the mattress and sank into its springs and
lumps. She contemplated the squareness of the small room,
sharpened by the afternoon shadows strewn across the floor. The
angular walls, the floor and ceiling tiles cut impotently into
infinite space and time, but the fragile structure confined her
there indefinitely. She stared out the rectangular window to an
identical house across the street, and closed her eyes tightly.
"I have this feeling that something is wrong," Maya said
sheepishly to Wilma, when Wilma entered the room. Wilma was
round and her circular shadow broke up the box space in the
sparsely furnished room as Wilma gestured and moved around.
"Oh? What's the matter?" Wilma asked with concern. Her
eyebrows lifted in a question.
Maya's oval brown face cracked slowly into a crooked
smile. She asked, "Did you ever look at this room, Wilma? The
squareness of our little worlds? The insignificant walls? Have
you ever wondered if there were a futility and senselessness in
these structures? Why are we so infatuated with squares? Are
there squares in the real world?" Maya giggled at herself and
pointed out the window with her last question.
As Wilma sipped her coffee noisily, she studied Maya's
face. It wore a nervous frown that was there one minute and
gone the next. ''You didn't come here to ask me about this room,"
Wilma said matter-of-factly. "You didn't drive all the way from
Albuquerque to Santa Fe, to question me about this room. Huhuh."
Maya put down her own mug of coffee and looked into
the eyes of her old friend intently for a few seconds, making a
decision to tell Wilma everything. She dropped her voice to
barely a whisper. Wilma had to lean toward Maya to catch the
words Maya let go. The words visibly hung in the air between
the two women for seconds. Maya said, "Things have been happening to me lately. I've lost some things. Well ..., actually they
were taken, you know, uh ... stolen." Maya watched Wilma's
response. Wilma's face was blank. Maya continued, "Then, there
have been accidents on the highway, traffic accidents, all occurring within seconds from me. Too close!"
Wilma was sipping coffee. Her shadow slipped under

her and stayed a step ahead of her as she glided to a chair, one of
three pieces of furniture in the room. Maya bent and leaned even
closer to Wilma. The wooden chair holding Maya's weight made
a little sound. Planes of light and shadow played over Maya's
face as she asked Wilma, "Do you know what I am talking
about?" The frown was laying over Maya's face again.
. Wilma nodded her head decisively. "Yes.... oh sure. I was
just thinking about things you can do about it. First, tell me about
the items you've lost. Did you get anything back? Returned to
you?"
Maya leaned forward and held her oval face in her long
fingers. Her pointed elbows were on her knees. "Well, first two
blankets disappeared. That pretty purple one with the tan and
black stripes. Then I missed a red one with green fringes, both
taken from the place I am now staying, in Albuquerque."
"Go on," Wilma encouraged. Maya looked thoughtful
and far away. Maya's round figure stood before the rectangular
window. Clouds floated on her shoulders and through her black
hair.
·
"A purse was taken next. Everything in it," Maya said.
She waved her purse with a soft bare arm. A streak of sunlight
radiated under her arm.
"And the accidents?" Wilma prodded.
"Always to other people, just ahead, or just behind me a
split second from me. As far as you are to me. It's happened '
three times now, people died each time." Maya poured the
remaining coffee into her mouth and sat back on the chair.
The room became quiet. The sunlight on the floor
crawled from Wilma's feet to Maya's, half-way across the room.
Maya's face went through a variety of expressions in this silence,
while Wilma's face stayed blank, non-committal.
Then Wilma soothed Maya's prolonged frown. "Stay here
tonight, you can - can't you? We'll talk and think this thing
through. Okay?"
Maya nodded her head, though she did not speak. She
went again to the window, staring beyond the house across the
street, into infinite space and time.
.
. "If we can't come up with any solutions, then you go to
B1~enti. You ?ught to anyway, to find out about your missing
things. He will locate them for you. Okay?" Wilma asked while
Maya nodded her head again. Their shadows had stretched

24

25

Bicenti by Anna Lee Walters
Things weren't right.

Anna Lee Walters

Anna Lee Walters

Nakai." As an after thought, Wilma said, "Indians are every-

longer by then, and the planes of the room were elongated,
distorted by the hour at hand.
The Sangre de Cristo Mountains loomed in the east, soft
and rolling cones, under a melting orange and purple sky. This
evening was cool, a gentle wind from the south played on the
twowomen.
Maya and Wilma sat on the porch. Wilma hummed a
tribal song as the two watched the mountains, and the sky and
clouds dissolve into darkness.
Maya said, 'Wilma, you've been listening to my problems all day. I didn't even ask you about the vandalism you have
been experiencing out here. What's happening?"
Wilma answered, 'Well, we are about ten miles from
town. I guess distance may have something to do with it. But
things have been quiet lately. If you don't count the weird
incident that happened next door." She raised a finger and
indicated her nearest neighbour's house. Then she continued, "It
happened about a month ago. And Maya, you can't really call it
vandalism. All that can be said about it is that it was very strange.
Bizzare might be the word to describe it. That reminds me, Maya,
you ought to park your car up here by the house."
'Well anyway," she went back to her story, "this lady and
her husband next door, they're Spanish people...One evening
they came home and parked their car out in the parking lot in
front of their house. See? The next morning, the car was upside
down. It was pretty strange. No one heard a sound during the
night. But sure enough, the next morning there was this car
sitting in the exact spot where it had been parked the evening
before , but it was upside down!"
Maya laughed, "I guess so! I hope things like that don't
happen too often. Are you afraid living out here by yourself?"
'Not at all," Wilma chuckled. "I usually enjoy it. I can't
stand the thought of living cooped up in town. The houses are so
close together. We're close here too - but it's different. Besides
Raoul is here more often than not. You haven't met him but you'll
like him, Maya, when you do meet him. He's mostly Spanish, but
he's part Indian too."
"Is everyone here Spanish?" Maya wanted to know.
"Mixed, but mostly Spanish. There's a Taos family on the
other side, and old Comanche woman down the street, and then
there are Din 'e - Navajos." She laughed. "The rest are Bilagaana or

where, no matter where you go."
Maya smiled. "It's a nice, peaceful community," she said.
"Too bad about the vandalism. As often as I've been here, I
would never have known the problem exists out here - if you
hadn't told me."
The two women sat there for a while longer until Wilma
asked Maya if she were tired. Maya admitted that she was, stress
had taken it's toll. Before they retired, Wilma said, ''Maya, why
don't you move your car up here, beside the porch?"
Maya stretched out on top of a sleeping bag in the
middle of Wilma's square floor. Her eyelids soon twitched in a
deep sleep.
Wilma stood over her friend for a long time that night,
thinking of the words Maya had dropped in the next room. A
frown creased Wilma's forehead now that Maya couldn't see.
Wilma went to the only window in this room to close the drapes.
She raised the window several inches to allow a breeze to circulate. She saw Maya's car sitting under a streetlamp that emitted a
yellow circle of light around the car.
About midnight, Maya woke. Her eyes stared into the
blackness of the square room. She was fully conscious. Her
thoughts went immediately to her car. "They're doing something
to it," she whispered. She rose, went to the window and looked
out. The car sat safely under the high beam of the streetlamp.
Maya breathed a sigh of relief. She sat in the rocking chair beside
the window and kept a vigil over her car for a few minutes.
Then, satisfied that for the moment it was safe, she lay back
inside the sleeping bag. The breeze was stronger, billowing the
drapes.
At 5:30 the next morning, the alarm clock buzzed.
The Sangre de Cristo Mountains were a faint shape
outside Wilma's house. A white line curved around the horizon
of the mountains, sun streaks spread fan-like at one end of the
range.
Wilma got out of bed and stopped the buzzing alarm.
The house was all dark. She walked from her room to the one
where Maya slept. She pulled the cord at the window. The
drapes, like stage curtains, parted on the glowing horizon. A cold
wave slid into the room. The window was still open. Outside in
the parking lot, the streetlamps were dark. Wilma could see the

26

27

Anna Lee Walters

Anna Lee Walters

faint blue mountains in the east, the silhouette of night in the west
engulfed nearby houses.
Wilma went to the kitchen to put coffee in the percolator.
She turned on the radio. Its dials were florescent when Wilma
flipped off the light switch.
Then she went into the bathroom, stripped off her clothes,
and went naked into the bathroom. In a few minutes, the shower
could be heard.
Maya woke to a country and western singer moaning on
the radio and the shower beating into the bathtub. She lay there a
moment with her eyes closed listening to the music drift into the
room. The odor of perking coffee followed the music.
When Wilma entered the room in a long while terry-cloth
robe, Maya asked, 'What time is it? I have to be in Albuquerque
by 8. I have one of those awful early classes today."
'1t's about 5:45," Wilma answered drying her long hair
with a red towel. "I set the alarm a half hour early, so we can visit
a little longer. I have to go to work too. I hope you don't mind my
getting you up so early."
"Oh no, I'm glad you did," Maya said. She sat on the
sleeping bag and added, 'Wilma, thanks for everything. I feel
much better, refreshed, and in a clean frame of mind. I'll go to
Bicenti this weekend."
"Good, I'm glad that's settled," Wilma answered, shaking
out her long wet hair that had fallen to her waist. She said, "Maya,
I think the coffee's ready. You want some?"
But Maya held up a hand and said, "I'll jump in the
shower first." She gathered her clothes and carried a small suitcase into the bathroom. The light in there escaped from under the
closed door. The rest of the house was dark.
Wilma went to lower the open window in the room. Her
wet hair had chilled her. While she was pulling down the window, she looked toward Maya's car. It was assuming a vague
shape in the dawn. Wilma paused momentarily straining her eyes
at the car. "Hmm," she said and went into the kitchen.
She poured a cup of coffee and looked at the radio when the
female announcer came on and said in a seductive voice. "Good
morning, sleepyhead. It's six a.m."
Not too long after, Maya's feet padded into the room. Her
hair was wrapped in a towel turban-style. She wore blue jeans and
a turquoise blouse. Her toes stuck out of her house shoes. She

poured herself a cup of coffee and took a taste. That's when
Wilma said, "Maya, it looks like there is something on your car."
"Oh?" was Maya's response. Her feet padded to the open
window. The sun had not risen yet, but the mountains were
purple and the sky above them was a delicate pink. Daylight was
spreading tentatively toward Wilma's community. The community buildings however were still square silhouettes against the
fingers of dawn. "It's a beautiful morning," Maya's first observation. Then her eyes went to the car.
There was something on it, but she was near-sighted and
without her glasses. She said, "Yes, Wilma, there does seem to be
something on it. But I can't make it out that well." Her words
made her remember the vigil at midnight.
Wilma stood at Maya's side. She said, "Let's go see.
Maybe they punctured the tires, or something· like that."
The two women walked out of the house. Maya carried
her mug of coffee. They stood on the porch. Wilma pointed to her
flower bed. The flowers were uncurling. They walked past the
marigolds and down to the parking lot. None of the other houses
were lit, not even the apartment complex at the end of the block.
The local streets were empty of early morning traffic. "That's
strange," Maya said. "There doesn't seem to be anyone stirring but
us."
Wilma looked up and down the streets, her damp hair
clung to her shoulders. ''Yes, that's right, isn't it?" she agreed with
Maya. The domed sky was turning a pale blue. Clouds skirted the
mountaintops.
Maya's car pointed north. As she walked toward it, she
noted that the windows were unbroken, the tires inflated. The car
appeared to be unharmed, at least on one side. But what was that
on top of it? A black shadow lay on the roof of the car. It
stretched the entire length of the roof. Maya and Wilma stopped
about ten feet from the car. Their eyes locked briefly. Then both
women had the same thought, they gazed at the houses around
them. The houses were mute and lifeless forms. Wilma pulled her
wet hair over her right shoulder and looked soutl).west. The
Sandia Mountains were now distinguishable in the dawn. A
crescent moon glittered on Sandia Peak. A few cars on Interstate
4~ still had their headlights on. These lights zipped east and west
without a sound.

28

29

Anna Lee Walters

Anna Lee Walters

"Strange," commented Wilma. Maya took a shaky step
closer to the shadow on her car. Wilma followed. And when
Maya stopped just at the left headlight, Wilma did too.
'What in the world?" Wilma asked in a breathy and
perplexed voice.
Maya was frozen for a second, desperately sorting
images that flashed before her eyes. She saw herself standing in
front the car, moving like an actress in a bizarre play, detached
from herself, but nevertheless affected. The only thing she could
say was, "What?", and again, "What... ?"
The thing on the car grew into a foreboding shape in
morning light. A large dog was draped over the roof of the car.
The outline of its head was clearly discernible.
'What?" Maya repeated. "How...?" She didn't finish the
question.
The animal did not move. Maya half expected it to
pounce on her or off the car. Again Maya's eyes zeroed in on the
houses. Not a curtain in any window fluttered. She noted that
Wilma too was studying the houses. When the dog did not
move, Maya put her coffee mug on the hood of the car and took
another step.
It was then that she saw the spray of blood covering the
front of the window, on the passenger side. It had dripped down
the side windows on the other side of the car. Dried pools of red
stained the cement.
The jaws of the dog hung open and it looked as if this
was from where the blood had gushed until the animal was
thoroughly drained.
Maya tried to make sense of the scene. She went
through a flood of emotion; anger, compassion, for the dead
animal, and resolution not to submit to fear.
"Let's go inside," she told Wilma. Wilma nodded,
grabbed the mug she had placed on the hood of the car, and
involuntarily shivered.
Inside the house, Maya grabbed Wilma by the shoulders
and asked, 'What's happening?"
Wilma's eyes were round and her mouth was round too
as she said, "Oh, Maya, I don't know. It's like that incident with
the car. Weird as hell. What shall we do?"
"I don't know," Maya said, "Let me think." she kicked off

her house shoes and slipped on leather sandles. While she did
this, Wilma threw on the clothes she wore the day before.
'We have to get rid of it," Maya said. "Someone gave that thing
to me. I don't want it and I refuse it. I'm taking it back to wherever it came from ..."
'We'll have to clean the car," Wilma said. She ran to get
a plastic jar of dish detergent, and she filled a tupperware bowl
with warm water.
"I don't get it," Maya said looking out the window once
more. "Where is everyone? There used to be early morning
traffic here, I remember that!"
"Don't try to figure it out now, Maya. Let's act, move, do
something!" Wilma said. "This absence of the neighbors - maybe
we can use it to our advantage."
"Yeah, okay," Maya nodded her head. She took a roll of
paper towels Wilma handed to her.
Again, they ventured out. The sky was opaque, the sun
had not yet climbed the lowest mountains. Not one car passed
on this street, or down the side streets.
Maya and Wilma acted quickly and in coordination. The
two women lifted the dead animal off the roof of the car. Its
body was stiff and heavy. It must have weighed a good seventy
pounds. They laid the rigid body just off the walkway in front of
Maya's car. Again anger filled Maya as she poured soapy water
on the dried blood. Wilma scrubbed the front of the car while
Maya did the side, wiping the car clean and dry with paper
towels. It took a few minutes. Wilma went back inside the house.
Maya stayed to empty the remaining water on the pools of blood
on the cement. The soapy water colored a pink tint and ran in
rivulets down the street.
Then Maya noticed something she hadn't seen before. A
trail of blood led to her car from across the street. She followed
it and came upon another pool of blood just in front of the house
opposite Wilma's house. From there the trail went down the
block. Maya stood in front of that house for a moment. Then she
quickly walked to the place where she and Wilma had carefully
laid the animal, a few feet from the car.
She picked up the stiffened body by its front and back
legs, and she carried it across the street, struggling with her
burden and panting when she was done. She left the dog in the
pool of dried blood there, stood defiantly and challengingly in

30

31

Anna Lee Walters

Anna Lee Walters

front of that house. There were no signs of life in the neighborhood yet. She scooped up a handful of dirt from that yard and
carried it to her car where she scattered it over the drying pools
of water and blood. She rubbed the dirt over the cement viciously with her sandals. The blood darkened to brown spots.
'Now," Maya whispered, 'We'll see what happens."
At that moment a light came on in a house on the
comer. She heard a door slam somewhere. A quick look inside
her car reasurred her that nothing more had been done to it. The
tires were in good shape. She retraced her steps to Wilma's
house. Wilma met her at the door. Wilma's wet hair was tied
with a rubber band and she wore a sweater.
"What now?" Wilma wanted to know.
'We wait and see what happens," Maya said. "No matter
what does happen though, we don't know anything about that
dog, okay?"
"It's the best way," Wilma said.
·Maya unwrapped the towel around her head. "What
time is it?" she asked.
"It's about 6:40," Wilma said, "You should leave before 7
if you want to make that class."
Maya asked, "Will you be all right?"
Wilma went into the kitchen, searching for the coffee
cup she'd put down someplace earlier. As she poured a hot
cupful of coffee, she answered, "I'll go to work. No, maybe I
won't. I have to leave anyway. But, I'll be all right."
Footsteps were coming down the sidewalk outside.
Wilma came out of the kitchen and looked questioningly at
Maya. The steps ended on her front porch. Someone pounded
on the door.
Wilma opened it. Maya sat in the living room and
listened. 'What did you do with the dog?" a female voice asked
in a huff.
Maya heard Wilma answer innocently, 'What dog?"
The woman repeated the question. Wilma asked again,
"What dog? What are you talking about?"
To this, the woman shrieked, "You're going to pay!
Killers!"
Wilma then said, "Look lady, calm down. If I can help
you in some way ..."
But the woman interrupted the offer of help, threatening

Wilma with curses and vile names. Maya heard Wilma close the
door.
Wilma returned to Maya. She looked calm, but Maya
saw her hands shaking. ''Did she frighten you? Who was she?"
Maya asked.
"I don't know," Wilma said, "but it wasn't the woman
who scared me. It was the man.
"The man?" Maya asked in surprise.
"Yes," Wilma said. "There was a man with her, standing
behind her the whole time. He stood there in silence and made
obscene gestures at me. His gyrations were so unnatural, not humanly possible. It scared the hell out of me!"
"You didn't show it did you?" Maya asked in alarm.
"Fear won't help us Wilma."
.
"No, I don't think it showed. I was just so startled. But it
was the damndest thing!" Wilma gulped her coffee. Maya put an
arm around her friend. "Are you okay?" Maya asked. Wilma
shuddered, but managed a smile.
"Listen, I'm going to have to leave. I hate to just walk
away like this, I don't understand any of this," Maya said.
"It may be that walking away is the only way to respond," Wilma said pursing her lips. "But I am convinced that
you need to see Bicenti, now more than ever."
Maya nodded in complete agreement.
Footsteps were at the door again. Wilma looked at Maya
and went to the door. "Killers!" the woman was screaming. 'The
state police are coming after you." Maya saw her lift a pudgy
finger and stick it in Wilma's face. The woman was clownish in
appearance, her face painted in brilliant hues. Maya stood behind
Wilma.
There was a man with the woman. He was dark, possibly
Hispanic or Indian. He bobbed up and down, as if there were
springs in his legs and feet. He waved his arms imitating a
grounded bird, and he contorted his face into grotesque masks
that changed and flitted away as quickly as they settled over his
features. Then his hands went to the crotch of his pants and he
mimed an unearthly perfonnance, contorting his body beyond
the bounds of human ability. The woman with him blocking the
doorway was unconcerned with his antics, she continued to
shout obscenities at Wilma. They poured out in a torrent of
stinging words.

32

33

Anna Lee Walters

Anna Lee Walters

Then Maya said to the woman, slowly and very clearly, "I
don't know what's happening, or who you are - but you are not
welcome here, and neither is anything that you bring with you."
The words hung in the doorway for seconds.
The woman's eyes blinked surprise at Maya's words. For
a moment, the woman's own stream of words stopped. She balanced her bulky weight on one foot. Her painted face became a
frozen mask. The dark man behind the woman ceased his gyrations for a split second fracturing time and space after Maya
spoke. He poised himself in the interlude, unnaturally immobile.
The feat was startling. Maya was elated, felt a jab of tiny victory
that her words had somehow paused his weird pantomime.
"Close the door," Maya said in Wilma's ear. Wilma
pushed the door shut on the two figures. Outside, the woman
again started her harangue, and then the din subsided. There
were no sounds of departing footsteps. Only abrupt silence.
Wilma went to the window to observe the walkways and
parking lot. 'Nothing," she said in a low voice to Maya. 'Nothing."
They gathered up Maya's things and prepared to go to
Maya's car. Maya took out her keys from her pants pocket. They
were ready to face whatever waited outside.
Before Maya opened the door, she said to Wilma. "Wait
until I see if the car is going to start. Don't leave me until I know
for sure. Then I'll wait until you're back inside before I drive
away."
The streets were silent. None of the occupants of the
dozen houses around them were visible. Wilma and Maya were
completely alone. The orange rim of the sun was spreading up
behind the mountains then.
"I'm sorry to have to leave like this," Wilma said. "But
don't worry about me. I'll let Raoul take me to someone like
Bicenti and learn something about this mess. I'll be all right. Now
you just promise me that you'll see Bicenti as soon as possible.
Promise."
Maya nodded and looked back toward Wilma's house.
That dark man who had been on Wilma's porch a few minutes
earlier now stood on the walk. Maya's head went up sharply and
she sucked in a deep breath. Wilma turned to see what had
affected Maya this way. The man seemed suspended there on a

background of cumulus clouds. He was detached from the earth
and everything that Wilma and Maya knew. He began to bob,
spring up and down, a jumping-jack. Again, his hands went to
his pants crotch and Maya turned away. So did Wilma.
"Is it possible that I am 'cracking up'?" Maya asked
Wilma. Wilma smiled a caring and trusting smile. "If you are, I
am too," she told Maya. ''Look, Maya - don't mention this,
what's happened here to anyone. You know what I mean, other
than the likes of Bicenti. Few people understand, have seen
beyond ..."
Maya looked again to where the dark man had been.
He'd disappeared into Santa Fe's thin air. "Yeah," Maya said, "I
know. I agree. Our people understand ... , this kind of fracture of
space, and time ... But like you say, there's only a few who do.
Don't worry, I won't say anything. Now you go inside as soon as
the car starts." She unlocked the car, took her glasses from the
glove compartment, and put the key in the ignition. The car
started smoothly.
"Okay," Maya said to Wilma, "go on. I'll wait until you
get inside." Wilma reached inside the car and hugged Maya,
then she turned and retreated to the house.
Maya backed out of the parking lot slowly, noting that
the curtains in a few houses were moving. She turned on the
radio and set the dial on the Santa Fe station. The woman's voice
had not abandoned the seductive tone. And it was now 7:05.
Wilma waited alone in her house all day, expecting
something to happen but nothing did. About mid-morning, the
neighbors showed some signs of life and activity. Cars cruised
the streets.
Maya drove directly to Albuquerque, negotiating the
tricky freeway traffic in time to make her 8:15 class at the university. But her mind played a reel of events that had happened
to her recently; broken images of the dawning hours returned to
her. By then, she was doubting her senses, asking herself if any
of it had happened. In a university parking lot, she climbed out
of her car, ambivalent about what she should do. She gathered
her books from the trunk and slammed it down hard. Then she
went to put a quarter into the meter. Splotches of dried red
blood on the car caught her eye. Suddenly her doubts vanished,
her mind cleared. She set her jaw in determination, and she
climbed back into the car. Bicenti was in Arizona six hours away.

34

35

Anna Lee Walters

Anna Lee Walters

It was nearly four when Maya arrived home. Her family met her
at the front door. 'What's wrong, mom?" one of her children
asked. ''You're not supposed to be home yet. Are you cutting
class?" The boy laughed and then he noticed Maya's strained
face. he asked, "Are you all right?"
"No," Maya answered. "Let's talk."
In Santa Fe, Raoul knocked on Wilma's door. Wilma let
him in. He hugged her, his white even teeth showing in a wide
smile. "How's my girl today?" he asked.
Wilma answered him, "Raoul, how would you like to
take me for a long ride today?"
"How long?" Raoul questioned.
"To Ca~noncito, thirty miles from Albuquerque," Wilma
told him. "I'll make it worth your while," she said with a wink.
"Okay by me, but why are we going to Can~oncito?"
Raoul inquired.
"I have to see a man there," Wilma said.
Raoul smiled and teased, "Won't I do?"
Wilma laughed, "Afraid not, lover boy. The man we're
going to see finds things, tells you what's wrong. Know what I
mean?"
Raoul nodded. He understood.
At dusk, Maya and her man were riding down a treacherous road that wound through sagebrush and pi-non trees. The
Chuska mountains were dark green behind them and Black Mesa
was ahead of them some forty miles distant. A cribbed log hogan
and a house were in sight at the end of the road. Sheep were
penned in a nearby corral, and their bleating sailed through the
evening's space and time.
Maya's man went into the house and not long after came
to get Maya, waiting in the pick-up truck. "Bicenti is in the
hogan," he said. He opened the truck door. Maya followed him
inside the dark hogan.
Maya's man greeted Bicenti who sat on a sheepskin that
covered the earthen ground. They touched each other's hands,
then Maya touched Bicenti's hand, and took a place on the
sheepskin beside him. Through the smoke hole, Maya watched
the pink sky fade. In time Maya told him everything. !hings
weren't right she said intermittently while he sat and listened, not
surprised at anything she said.
They left Bicenti's hogan over an hour later. The eastern

sky was sprinkled with early stars and the world appeared as it
should be. Bicenti would come to Maya's house the next night.
He would quietly tell all. Then he would bind the tiniest fracture
in infinite space and time. Then, he would go silently away, until
the next time.

36

"\fhting lf'bich addresses tbe root assumptions. ..
the t•ery ground 011 u•bicb u•e 're standing. .. "
RADICAL FEMINIST THEORY

1{4:/ TRIVIA
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JOURNAL
OF IDEAS

nf"O-PART ISSUE-·
lHE ]RD f.\TERSAT/0.\"AL
FE.111.v1Sr BooKFAIR

Experimental Prose
Translations
Reviews
Lee Ma,:;acle - Moving Over • Susanne de
Lotbiniere-Harwood - I Write Le Body
Bilingual • Jeannette C. Armstrong Cultural Robbery, Imperialism: Voices of
Native Women • Conversations at the
Book Fair - Interviews with Lee Maracle
and Gloria Anzaldt1a • Gloria Anzaldua Border Crossings • Michele Causse - ( ):
Interview• Ruthann Robson - Nightshade•
Verena Stefan - Literally Dreaming •
Jewelle L. Gomez - In Review: Chrystos·
Not Vanishing • Linda L. Nelson - After
Reading Gloria Anzaldua's Rorderlands/La
Frontera

TRIVIA P.O. Box 606 N. Amherst, MA 01059
TRIVIA is publish,d thm timu a year.
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37

Annharte
Cheeky Moon by Annharte
Those eyes show total disgust
at mothers who got sweet talked.
I am the direct result
-fruit of the unionthe big cheek breed
who bucks tradition
becomes a typical troublemaker
except I drink tea
-Blue Ribbon brandfrom a chipped enamel cup.
I should cast dark images
on Grey Owl's guided fantasy.
His beavers led the way
(never mind his wives)
to his imposter identity.
I'm left to defend
one lonely drop of blood.
I might terminate
if I get nosebleed.
The degree never counts
unless you practice law.
I need the law of the land
to respect my blood.
Between you and me
it's the bucket of crabs
pulling us down together.
I count myself lucky
to salvage my ancestry
in this particular drop
at my time.

38

Bloody Jig
riel

riel

died

died
lie

didn't we
take our blood back
fan out shake rattle roll
one snare drum bang one big drum
half white half chief half his people
half people jig have half the blood he had

39

Annharte
Review: Being On the Moon by Lee Maracle

One Way To Keep Track
of Who Is Talking
If I change one word, I change history. What did I
say today? Do I even remember one word? Writing is
oral tradition. You have to practice the words on
someone before writing it down.

I do not intend to become the world's greatest Indian
orator. Maybe I might by accident. I might speak my
mind even when running off my mouth like I'm doing.
Language finds a tongue. Maybe it will be an Indian
accent.
Counting hostile Indians is made easier because they
don't talk much or very little. They look the part
-the part in the middle with braids. You never do
know if you are talking to an Indian.
Frozen Indians and frozen conversations predominate.
We mourn the ones at Wounded Knee. Our traditions
buried in one grave. Our frozen circles of silence
does no honor to them. We must talk to keep our
conversations from getting too dead.

Poetry began as the first form of drama, story, song, all
combined together.Over the centuries, several art forms arose as
poetic verse. Since then, poets have striven to re-capture the
rythmic, dramatic, story-song qualities in their writing. For such as
myself, it is a struggle, a kind of clawing and digging around inside
for what is best in me. For others, it is an academic exercise,
intellectual work, so to speak. I began reading Annehartes 'Being
On The Moon' after a long day in Toronto whose air is always resplendent with chemicals, smog, which turns that which lives in the
throat green.
I caution patrons of poetry; do not begin reading Annharte' s
book at midnight after a trying day. Over and over, I let the words,
the characters, th~ music of her wo_rk, dance about before me, until
the night had passed and I had to face a new day without the benefit
of a good night's rest. In fact, you don't 'read' Annharte' s work, you
get to know her and all the people in her life. You come to
understand her sense of humanity,her love for life and the beauty
of her language through her English.
The next day I heard her speak. I want to thank my
grandmothers and my mother for bringing me up outside the realm
of professional jealousy. Annehart is a poet. No clawing or digging
produced this book, just a running record of the highlights of her
life. It is as though she sat down every now and then, and talked to
clean sheets of paper, as though they were living friends.
"Mocassins keep coming undone
Slight injury slows up my parade
Minding my old lady steps ...
and I wanted to apologize to my own tattered moccasins who were
once the skin of living moose, for not recognizing they were not just
objects, but living beings.
Who said work was for us
my job is being an Indian squaw ...there are no
more jobs down south

40

41

Lee Maracle

Lee Maracle
rich women want to keep our kids

For Elijah Harper

for a hobby scrubbing extra hard

Grandma:,
I sit rewitnessing genocide,
birthin
an endress field of tears
that can't wash away our death

"Quebec
is a distinctive society"
-suchaninnocuousdemand
vetoed by English pomposity.

While,
eleven men sit stoutly
around a green baize table
the twelfth chair oddly vacant

Between
the lines of silience
and objetions to Quebec
resides their real fear

Silence
violent, dogged silence
surrounds ffie empty chair
consuming our dreams.

Grandma,
to grant Quebec distinction
they would have to make you
the twelfth disciple.

Missing,
generations of erasure
oy men who continue
to talk about Natives

Ghost dance
between the paralyzed pens
of Meech's men arresting the
signatory of an accord negating us.

Eleven men
singing in unrestained refrain
Aboriginal, Aboriginal rights,
minus Aboriginal people

Instead
they sit, white faces shining
replanting conquest as silence begs
release from our endless field of tears

eleven men, dressing the window
of indi$enous absence in silky
bantenng over Quebec' fate

OKanata
my home and devastated land
I am powerless to defend
eleven men and an empty chair

to make them white until their teens
bring out that ol' Southern Comfort...
so again a squaw will laugh
I like my job in Indian country
no white women tell me what I do.
and Annharte jumps off the page, in good honest indigenous style,
her great heart laughing in the face of what was intended to be our
tragedy. Thank you, Annharte, I shall never again weep on cue at
the tragedy outlined by Canada for us. It is only tragedy if we are
not sure of the truth inside.
I'm tapped by her eyes double ringers under violet
bruisings as she asks "Did you see a little boy standing
here?" '1 must be seeing a ghost'' I hear she had a story
she wanted to tell me.
Writers, according to Kurisowa, an honored Japanese
filmist, should "never avert their eyes". For us, writers never
avert their eyes or their ears. We collect stories, our folk tales
and render them understandable, changeable; subtracting the
tragedy and restoring the spirit to its healthy, natural state. Our
writing is born of our lives and the lives of those who touch us.

42

43

Last Quarter Song by Daniel David Moses

Nokomis by Forrest A. Funmaker

Where has our Grandmother gone tonight?
Our Grandmother has gone to the moon.
All Grandmothers do when their business

i first saw you as a large lake
on the west side of Minneapolis.
There waves skittered across the
surface and i knew it was you
a thing of beauty wild in the city
Mom told me of you dying, being
killed mysteriously, i think now
she was only trying to hide your
beautiful image. You must have
been beautiful if you were my
grandma, for I am Indian and
just as beautiful as you. i've
seen this city change since you
were alive, i've drank with the
people you once nourished, ones
you let use you to get their
beer and whiskey, the ones i
now call my friends too. We
are alike grandma me and you;
we've seen the inside of this
cage and we have rattled it's
bars, we have talked to those
in need, and i'm sure we have
cried the same tears. On your
shores, along the sandy shores,
near the waters edge, i sit
thinking what you must have
been like. i crack the top off
this beer bottle, take a sip,
and chuck it to you. Cheers
Nokomis. i love you

here is done. She'll be there at least as
long as the moon lasts. Her reflection
on the river was so bright tonight
I almost lost my paddle. Looking
back through the crystalline air at us
navigating night in our canoe
don't you think she can see forever?
Don't you think that we two look to her
more than bright enough to make it through?

TIRED SONG
Listen to the white
walls. What naysayers
they are. How they run
everything over.

and the first geese oh
are ahead. Roll
down the window and talk
now, my friend, about

Oh why can't they come
to some dead end
in their conversation?
I'm tired of them

this place yielding
light and wings, this road
where we are now and
always arriving.

saying NEVER
is when we'll arrive at
our destination.
I really am at
the end. Not NEVER
That cannot be right.
The last of snow's
white in the fields
44

45

Forrest A. Funmaker

Forrest A. Funmaker

The Story of Harry Loon

Bear Mirror

His story
shoots between my ears
quicker than
a legacy

In a class at school
he came into my hands
through a divine mistake
in a coined disguise

In ten minutes
he's seen more
done some
heard it all

At a convenience store
i gave the cashier twenty
he gave me twenty-seven
back
plus a looney

An unconscious uprising
full of spirit
taking care of business
on parliament hill

i was happy i met Harry
he wanted me to know
that nature is great
just don't fool around

He swims in strength's
ocean beauty
of work hours
and shapes reality

a lesson in respect
he acknowledged me
and now rewarded me
with a gold replica

He's Iktomi to some
Nanabush to others
the trickster to many
a Harry Loon to me

Deep inside me you're cool and black
Your reflections are evident
Shadow me back from this city
And take me home to our ways
Where the grass grows high and wild
And chickadees play so gleefully
let me understand truth for the first time
Show me so that I can do right
No one listens here the way elders did
Everybody's running around like white men
If it isn't a three piece suit
It's who can drink the most beer
Or who can smoke the most dope
It's always whose more Indian?
Time and time again
Bad blood is always spilled
Tell me what I did wrong
Is there still time to do it right
To know the ceremonies and songs
The histories, how to use a rattle
It came to me naturally as a child
But now my nurtured soul has forgotten
I need to know our ways
Please grant me this one wish
So off to the white man's school again
I'll be back after my classes
Maybe then I learn something
Learn what the white man doesn't teach
As my thoughts extend past you
I feel you are worthwhile
Tell me again Bear Mirror
Of what it's like to be free

46

47

Forrest A. Funmaker

You Rattle We Hum

Flower Day by Alice Lee

1.

when you died
i lay you here
sleep well i said
what else could i do with you

With every loud blast beat of the drum
The hide shook what remained of the windows
Vibrating down the halls of Little Earth
People came from all over the Projects
To wish us thanks and sing with the drum
Before we knew it the place was filled
And the People just kept coming to sing
Somebody brought over their P.A. system
And pretty soon the whole courtyard was
electric with voices singing the songs
until the wee hours of the morning

2.
We just kept beating on that old hide
Belting out the People's favorite songs
When we and the People were all high
The booze flowed with pinky size joints
The songs made the back of our necks
Tingle from person to person 'til at last
We could sing no more and the People tired
When we looked to see who all was there
Everyone we thought was there vanished
There was no real people and no P.A.
Just a lonely bunch of Spirits whose
Main gain to be with us was to sing

48

i come now to clean your grave
fresh flowers planted
headstone dusted clean
who else would do it
i hum as i work
iknow
that even in death
you need me
at noon
i'll use your grave as a table
and eat
a feast in celebration
a woman
alone

49

Maria Baptiste

Dream Maker by Maria Baptiste
Image-maker
I feel you creeping up
behind me
at night
when I am alone
You are set to a solid purpose
Filling my head with ancient relics
of the past
the leftover dusty bones of yesterday
the long buried voices
still waiting to be heard
I slip into their well worn moccasins
and walk the same path trod
so many generations ago
I see their smokeless villages
and their skinless bones scattered
about
Their jawless faces whisper in my ear
of long ago
Their words fill my head and my heart
I remember
with you at my side
am not afraid
for you are the
Dream Maker

50

Lacquer Red
"There was a little girl
who had a little curl
right in the middle of her forehead
When she was good
she was very good
when she was bad
she was
extraordinary!"
Her father always told her this rhyme, at night
she didn't like to hear it,
it made her feel bad
she was always left in the blackness, silent sobs
screaming within her.
That was many lives ago
Now she sits, huddled in an ebony corner of her room
hugging her knees to her thin chest
playing with her revlon lipstick
drawing little circles of red on
the floor
Nursery rhymes fill her head, she thought her mother was reading
aloud to her again, to make her feel better
but there was no one.
Darkness cascades its shadowy robe over all the creatures
that share this giant sphere
killers shaped through the ages
by
the fall of this perennial Garden of Eden
The moon suddenly cuts into the room through a window
invading her privacy
She sees little shadows dancing around her red lipstick marks
as if in a ceremonial ritual from some demonic past
But a heavenly light shines on the sharp gleam of the knife
beside her
She picks it up
twisting the blade seductively in the blackness
She's been living in two worlds, too bound by her own self
All she will leave is little
round
circles
of
lacquer
red
51

Greg Young-Ing

In Another World by Greg Young-Ing
In another world,
we might return as enemies
In another world,
we might return as friends
In the heart-land of my head
I have stood on a frozen mountain top
waiting
·
for a warm smile
to melt me down
And a sharp old mind
to stab my lofty thought flights
and gently guide them down
down
down

In the acid etchings of my memory
a sample of a people's voice is forever
in the wind that runs by my ears
a picture of Nations full of determined faces
forever
in the light
that flashes
before my eyes
In another world
we might return as enemies
In another world
we might return as friends
or to love
to love
to love

But here in the outside world
where we have to live
and the only 'untouchables'
are dancing across a T .V. screen
or lightly sprinkled
over the shiny pages of a magazine
the only sound I can make
is in the emptiness
of English business speak
that hungers for meaning
Together
we have raced through burning forests
set ablaze by someone else
and we came out clean
without blaming one another
or even losing the trail

52

53

j

The Fire Is My Mother by Redhand
Speak not to me out of both sides of your mouth
You tell me that it is important that I learn where I came from
But yet it is you who kept that knowledge from me and tried to
destroy who I am
In spite of you I know where I came from
I am survivor of the holocaust
I came from the midst of the fire
What came with me I cherish; what I lack I will build anew
Speak not about sending me back to search for those things I
have not· experienced
It is because of you that they are gone
I will not waste my energies searching to satsify your guilt
The fire is my mother
I am the Phoenix
I am the reality
I am the culture
I am the future
I am reborn, in fire

54

SPIRIT DEER

55

Richard Armstrong

Spirit Deer by Richard Armstrong
The early morning mist hung suspended over the pond below
the corral in long willowy wisps, barely visible. The air had a
dampness that made it feel somehow alive on my skin.
As I walked home from my early swim, I left a visible trail
behind me in the silvery dew covered grass. Meadow larks were
singing in their loudest, seemingly trying to outdo one another.
The sun which had almost reached the top of Picnic Hill, made it
look nice and warm over there, while here it was still shivery.
Even the smoke coming out of the chimney hung in the air
above the house in a light blue shroud. It seemed like something
was just waiting to happen. Things felt somehow different today,
so I stopped, and, tried to figure out what it might be.
At that moment the stillness was broken as Mom opened the
back door to put some food scraps in a plate for old Prince. He
crawled out from under the porch, stretched and wagged his old
tail. I could hear Dad whistling as he walked down the hill from
the chicken house. He had his hat in his hands and I just knew
that he had collected eggs that we would soon be having for
breakfast. He saw me and hollered out, 11 Did you feed the horses
yet?." I shouted back I did" as I opened the gate to the yard so
that Last Chance and Pinda-Ho could get a drink before they
were harnessed.
I stopped at the door and waited for Dad to get there so I could
hold the door open, because his hands were full. As I opened the
door I could smell fresh coffee and deer meat frying. Dad was
saying something about the hens laying more eggs lately.. .I
hardly heard him. My mind was still on whatever it was that I
sensed.
I looked at the water buckets on the kitchen counter by the sink
and silently prayed that they would not be empty just yet. I
wouldn't mind carrying those buckets of water up from the
spring later, but right now I didn't want to go back down there.
During breakfast my older brother and dad were talking about
fixing the dam in the creek and cleaning out the irrigation ditches
at the upper ranch. Somewhere during breakfast it was decided
that the entire family would be going because there was no
school today or tomorrow and that alot could be accomplished
towards getting things ready for planting.

Suddenly my little brother kicked me under the table and
pointed at Dad. I looked up and saw Dad's stem eyes on me. He
had been talking to me and I had been busy wondering if it was
the mist or the smoke that had made things look different. He
repeated, 11 You saddle up Lucky when you're done and ride up
to the spring above the pasture and bring the other horses in.
Your brothers here will ride to the Upper Ranch...we'll need the
extra horses to help with the work up there."
I was still feeling a little nervous, although I was not certain
what about, so I asked Dad Could I take a rifle with me?". He
said Go ahead, take the 25-20."
As I rode up the hill I could feel the nice warm sun on my back.
It was early spring and the whole hillside was covered with
yellow sunflowers. I could hear the call of the blue grouse. In my
mind I saw it as it strutted, all fluffed up, it's wing tips dragging
on the ground. There were lots of male grouse strutting back and
forth on almost all of the little ledges and when one flew up in
front of my horse I nearly fell off. It's sudden fluttering made
both me and my horse nervous.
I reached the top of the hill and in the distance I could hear the
bell that was strapped around Rocket's neck. So I knew that they
would be just a little bit further over the hill by the spring. I
decided to ride along the edge of the crest of the hill.
The view was something else, and I could hear a diesel engine
blowing it's horn at a Railway crossing somewhere far below in
the valley near the city...suddenly there ahead of me was a deer,
it took a few bounds and disappeared over the edge. I'd never
shot a deer before but I thought since I had a gun with me, it was
a chance to get one all by myself.
I got off my horse, tied her to a seeya bush and took my rifle
and walked slowly to the edge of the hill. I looked over and there
he was. He had stopped almost out of sight. One jump and he
would be gone. I raised my rifle without any fast or sudden
moves that might spook him. I knew I had only one chance.
He turned and jumped just as I pulled the trigger and
disappeared. But from the way that he jumped, I knew that I had
hit him.
I ran as fast as I could to where I had last seen him go out of
sight. From there I could see both ways along the open hillside,
and all the way down to the road, but there was no deer anywhere in sight. I walked down the hill in a zig-zag pattern and

56

57

II

II

II

Richard Armstrong

Richard Armstrong

soon came upon his tracks and a few drops of blood on the grass
but his tracks disappeared...
'
Now I searched that whole hillside up and down several times.
I was getting tired and feeling scared. I was thinking that a
deer couldn't just disappear like that, could it? Then I started
remembering the stories my uncle had told me about how a deer
will play tricks on you sometimes, especially if it's your first deer
and you don't have an elder with you.
Thinking these things, my heart started beating faster, and I
wondered if this deer was doing strange things to me. I shook
my head and thought, ''What is the matter with me, those were
only stories, things like that don't really happen." My imagination
was running overtime, so I sat down to calm down and rest a bit.
I decided I would go back up the hill, get on my horse and
herd the others down to the corral.. I would tell my dad that I
had w~unded a deer and couldn't find it. He would bring his old
dog Pnnce and Prince would find this disappearing deer.
As I was. sit:tlng there catching my breath, I was still scanning
~e ~pen h1l1~1de below me. There was only one big tree on this
hillside and 1t was about thirty yards directly below me. My eyes
had just looked at that big tree when I saw the deer look out from
behind the tree trunk. His head disappeared behind the tree only
to ~eappear out the other side. The strange thing was, that he was
facing down the hill. Everytime he poked his head out from
behind the tree he had to look back at me, like he was sitting
under the tree with his back leaned against the tree trunk.
My heart started pounding again, because he hadn't stuck his
head back out. I thought, "that's impossible, a deer can't sit under
a tree let alone hide from me by putting its back up against a tree
trunk." Just then he stuck his head out again as if he had heard
me. When he looked out from his hiding place at me, my heart
pounded harder. My heart was pounding so much now I could
hear the blood in my arteries rushing past my ears ...! was terrified.
I th~u_g~t, if this is a spirit deer playing tricks on me, should I
shoot 1t if 1t looks out at me from behind that tree again? Then I
thought, maybe the best thing to do is to go around to the side
and see if it was really leaning up against the tree...but what if it
was...what would I do then?
It took all my will power to get up slow and ease my way to

the side. As I got further to the side... sure enough, there he was
sitting with his back to the tree. I was 'SO stunned that I just froze
in my tracks and stared at this deer sitting under the tree with his
back leaned up against the trunk. .. suddenly he looked at me and
stuck his tongue out at me!!! That did it. I was gone.
I ran up that hill to where my horse was tied, like it was flat
ground. I jumped on my horse and rode down that hill towards
home like I was riding in a suicide race. Dad must have seen me
coming down that hill running Lucky as fast as she could go. She
ran sure-footed all the way to the tool shop where we usually
tied the horses.
Dad was waiting there. I bailed off that horse and before I hit
the ground I was telling my Dad how this deer was sitting under
a tree, with it's back to the tree trunk, and how he stuck his
tongue out at me.
My Dad grabbed my shoulder and shook me. He told me to
calm down and tell him what happened. So I told him everything. He told me to go into the house and have a cup of tea
while he saddled the old work horse Pinda-ho.
I had just finished my tea and telling Mom about what just
happened to me when Dad came in. He said, "Come on son, let's
go back up there and see." I told him, "I'd rather stay right here."
He told me, "Lefs go." His tone of voice told me that I'd better go
with him.
As we rode back up there, in my mind I could still see that
deer looking out at me from behind the tree. I was wishing that
he wouldn't be there when we got to the tree. But then if he was
gone no one would believe me.
We tied our horses and walked the short distance to where the
deer should be. I was walking behind Dad. I told him ''Thafs the
tree, he's behind there." Just then the deer stuck his head out and
looked at us. My heart just about stopped beating.
Dad calmly stepped aside and handed me the rifle. Then he
said "Sit down, take careful aim, and shoot it in the head." My
hands were shaking and little beads of sweat suddenly formed
on my forehead. Dad told me to take a couple of deep breaths
and pull the trigger.
I aimed and pulled the trigger. I kind of expected the deer to
suddenly disappear in a little whisp of smoke. But instead it
dropped dead. Dad handed me the knife and told me to go

58

59

Richard Armstrong
"throat it." I was scared but I went anyway. The deer was dead
and very real.
Dad touched my shoulder and I just about went straight up.
As I dressed the deer out, Dad told me why the deer was sitting
under this tree. He said that at the exact moment when I shot it,
it jumped as I fired and that I had hit it in the spine. This had
paralyzed the deer from the waist down.
Under this tree where I thought he was sitting there just
happened to be a deep little hole. It was some sort of a dust bed
that he fell into and couldn't pull himself out by his front legs. So
he just sort of sat there in this hole propped up by his front legs.
I finished dressing him out. I was looking at this deer and it all
sounded very logical, and then the deer winked at me!
I must have turned pale or maybe my hair stood up, because
Dad asked me what was wrong. I said "That dead deer just
winked at me." Dad chuckled and said, ''That's just a muscle
twitch. Dead animals twitch for awhile after they die."
Dad then told me that our people must respect the deer's life.
He explained to me what I had to do to show my respect for the
spirit of the deer. Then he said "Don't ever forget this" and he
walked away without another word.
While I was doing what he told me, I wondered if he had
meant this or my whole experience today.

Ravensky by Tim Michel

60

61

in Ravenbelly
igrow
embracing my solitude
strengthening my resolve in
my embryonic soup
until i am dislodged
and my outer self expelled
in Raven nest
i listen
gleaning from stories and emotions
grouping tribal memories
into one will
until my shell crumbles
and i am exposed
now, in Ravensky
iam
dancing the circle
fighting to stay true to the
star path overhead
until my breath is spent
and i pass the message on.

The Buffalo Man by T. Mitchel Staats
To the people in search of the way
He will come like a bright light
Showing the people it is now their day
To him will rally all the Nations might
He brings to his people the gift of life
An end to all the tribal strife
Not a prophet or a Messiah will He be
A servant to his people the world will see
He will ask the young of all to rise
And together they will capture the prize
Nations of Creation equal to all
Among the Brothers will stand tall
Together they will ease the pain of our old
And not let their dreams die cold
With conviction and their vision in sight
Our People's young will grow up right
They will hold to the rites of our past
And with their strength forever to last
By Keeping their eye on the Spotted Eagle's flight
They will end their nation's plight.

62

Bear With Me by Mary Lou C. DeBassige
Part One
Today we stand on new ground
Raspberry bushes spread abundently
A hot afternoon sun wraps sacred gifts
around this red-speckled field
Just for us from
up above(rocks/bluffs/ cliffs)
down below(valley)
all around(universe)
There are no clouds in the clear blue sky
unlike my mother's warning eyes
"Don't go too far away
stay close by where I can see you."
Old dead trees and stumps under raspberry bushes
thick green moss grows in cracks
on top hop scotch rocks
Her feet steadily check balance
Small stones fall between two large
opening layers of flat rocks
Must be hallow ground below
She reaches a branch of big red raspberries
Under her feet a crackling sound
One foot almost goes through a big dead tree
laying on the ground
The sound continues a murmur growl
She stands quiet picks berries wonders
Is it some other life?
She remembers stories about bear
from her mishomiss(grandpa)
One is big bears don't hurt nobody
if she sees one or more bear cubs
she's to walk away not play with them
because close by would be mother bear

63

Mary Lou C. DeBassige

Mary Lou C. DeBassige

Bear With Me

Bear With Me

PART TWO

PART THREE

Somewhere below straight down
sounds like bear
She drops her biggest berries
into the dark cave like hole
She stands on top criss crossed log
at the mouth between rocks
somewhere in the distance
pass the many sounds of birds
crickets bees and other insects
"Mary, where are you?
come here right now!"
It's momma' s scary voice far away

Montrna' s loud voice comes closer
Wide eyes look for a way out
She breaks loose runs and climbs
rugged layer rocks
from which she came
Mishomiss sits on top of this rock ground
There's trees everywhere
You'd never know there's underground
Mishomiss puffs his pipe
He knows this place
She was with him when he picked
this spot last fall
To make winter firewood
and this raspberry field

Binder twine string holds her
little raspberry container
catches a prickley rose bush
She tries to pull it loose
Instead all her raspberries spill
pass the bushes long grass
into opening ground below
She takes another slow step
stands firm and slides into
soft sawdust like tree log

Now, his straw hat keeps his face in the shade
He takes his red cotton handkerchief
from his back pocket overalls
Wipes his sweaty face and neck blows his nose
Puts his handkerchief back
into his back pocket
Beside him on this. rock ground
is a birch-bark handmade bowl
or pail shaped container full of raspberries

A family of red wood ants scatter
Try to run and hide
Instead of hit her legs
She feels a hairy something
Soft feather like movements
brush her ankle laced high tops(leather shoes)
Hears a burpy grunt
a deep contentment

64

"Brother (nickname)
you're just in time...
it's time to eat. ..
"Let's gather dry twigs
and cedar to make fire ...
we'll boil water for tea .. .
"The others will soon be here."

65

Mary Lou C. DeBassige

Mary Lou C. DeBassige

Bear With Me

Alive Spirit's Simplicity

PART FOUR

prologue:
Several days ago Mary's daughter, Lou, came to
our house. Lou plans to stay a while, until she
re-establishes herself in Toronto.
Lou just finished an Alcohol and Drug Rehabilitation
Program at Rainbow Lodge on Manitoulin Island.
Mary and I understand because we're ex-drunks

Over the open fire her momma turns over
a golden fried scone (fried-bread)
in a cast iron frying pan
Her momma's eyes tell her
not only of flowers in her head
She sees momma trade with a relative
some of these raspberries for
some coal oil for their lamp
She sees a handful of dollar bills
after momma sells maybe half a pailful
of these fresh raspberries
She will then buy white sugar
to make homemade jam
She sees jars of raspberry jam on shelves
underneath their kitchen floor celler
She will climb down a short steep ladder
Pick one jar when snow is on the ground
Tonight after hot sun goes down
she may get to watch momma cook
fresh clean sugar covered
sweet smelling raspberries
on top of the old kitchen wood stove
(and momma may even bake a raspberry pie
for tomorrow's dessert)
Before her bedtime she'll tell momma
she heard bear and gave bear
an open log of red ants for it's meal
and a five pound lard pail full of the
biggest, ripest, juiciest
raspberries for it's dessert

present setting:
With my spirit on a southern faced living room
loveseat, clean the attic of my mind by spinning
these words.
With her spirit, Mary's on a western faced swivel
dining room chair... in front of an oval table hooks
autumn glory on her rug.
1st dialogue:
"Mary, I haven't seen Lou for the past few days. I
miss her. Have you heard from her?"
"Oh yes, she phoned yesterday."
"That's good."
intermission:
[Scott, my son rings the door bell, He visits often
I get up to let him in.]
"Anee n'gushi, aneesh ezhibimadzeeyin,?"(Hello my
mother, how are you living your life/how is your life?")
He looks at Mary. ''Your telephone is ringing, Mary."
She goes upstairs to answer it. In the mectntime,
him and I converse. Several minutes later, Mary
comes downstairs in a quiet manner.

How do you tell momma something like this?
When all you don't want to see is a
long stick make deep razor sharp
red blood streaks on her body
''Momma, no! momma, no!
please momma, nooooooooo."
66

67

Mary Lou C. DeBassige

Bear Death by Armand Garnet Ruffo

2nd dialogue
"Was that Lou?"
"Um-hum,"(meamng
· yes)
"How is she?"
"Oh, she's fine. She's on her way home.
"~t's excell~nt! Mary, you and I have a strong
spmt connection. We sent it out to Lou. She
too picks it up by phoning."

Familiar with bear death
I have seen him served as an offering
hot on a plate, supper for the successful.
Penis bone scraped clean
and drying in the sun. Caged
corpse braided in tassels
and bells, lying like a rug.
Head stuffed.
Squat on a log dreaming slick ants
as thick as people or slick people as thick as ants
was the first time he was shot.
Right between the eyes. It was raining
a smell of earth and water.

epilogue:

ii•ii•Rtff

~iH#At@,1

HARMONY

68

If I say today he's bent and lumbering
over your city streets believe me.
The faces he sees are smudged against glass.
Enticed by flesh's soft currency, he is expected
to eat heartily, lick his lips
and join the crowd.
He tries to keep his head, take only
the choice bits, give
only the odd unfamiliar
growl.

69

Armand Garnet Ruffo

Armand Garnet Ruffo

Creating A Country
. They came to North America in search of a new life, clinging
to their few possessions, hungry for prosperity. They had enough of
poverty an? suffering to last a lifetime. They believed with all their
hearts that 1f they laboured they would become barons in a classless
society. Patriots were thus born on both sides of the border. But the
proc~ss of creating a country took much longer than most ever
unagmed. For there were a myriad of unforeseen obstacles in this
formidable new land, like the mosquitoes and Indians. Undaunted
the pioneering spirit persisted.
'
In Canada, Susanna Moodie arrived to take notes. After
writing anti-slavery tracts in England, she thought it only natural to
document the burden of roughing it in the bush. Susanna shied
away from both mosquitoes and Indians. One day, however, quite
by accident, she met a young Mohawk whom she thought handsome and for a brief period flirted with the notion of what it would
be like to be swept away by him.
But she soon tired of such thoughts and nothing ever became of it.
Later she would say neither Indians nor mosquitoes make good
company. She did make it perfectly clear that she bore no grudge.
She believed everything has a place.
Just as sh~ believed her place was across the ocean, but she
too had heard stones about golden opportunities. Lies! She could be
screaming alone. Nothing but lies! Susanna also believed that she
~as turning life into art, and creating the first semblence of culture
m a god forsaken land. It was her only compensation. When she
spoke about her life her eyes rolled in her head like a ship leaving
port. She never gave up the dream of returning home across the
ocean. Dreamed so hard that even on her death bed she never
stopped talking to herself.
South of the border Lt. Col. George Armstrong Custer never
once worried about mosquitoes. He too was interested in culture
and for this reason carried a gun. He was a soldier, not an artist, and
made no pretense about it. Custer never wrote and rarely talked
unless formally addressed. Yet, he was a passionate man who
dreamed the same dream every night. He fancied that he had
discovered the final solution. Each night he rounded up all the
buffalo in what is now Montana and shot every last one of them.
As a son of European peasantry, he'd heard stories about
what it was like to go hungry. He also knew that Indians could
70

starve just like white people. As a patriot, he believed his solution
was perfectly reasonable. He also believed that American politicians would see to it that the buffalo and the Indian would find a
new home on the American nickel.
Susanna Moodie never met General Hair (as Custer was
affectionately called), she never liked Americans anyway. She was
an old lady of 73 when he died on the plains of the Little Bighorn
trying to live out his dream. They say that Custer was singing "The
Girl I Left Behind" the day he headed west. We know he wasn't
singing to Susanna Moodie. We also know that after hearing what
the U.S. Cavalry was doing south of the border, Susanna thought
about the anti-slavery tracts she had written years before and, for
amoment,aboutwhathadeverbecomeofheryoungMohawk,ifhe
fared any better.

Pemmican Publications
is Celebrating its 10th Year of Publishing
A warm Thank You to all who supported
us through our 1st decade

e

411 - 504 Main Street/Winnipeg, MB/ Canada R3B 1B8 / (204) 942-0026

71

Red and White by Shirley Eagle Tail Feathers

Bright White One by Myrtle Johnson

(for Kate and Arny)
Amidst this cloud of racism
being bounced around
OFF of you and
OFF of me

I see things, light today
nice and quiet. My spirit
is wann like the winds flowing

Two little hearts
Meet
One red, and
One white

in empty skies.
I'm game, like fish

But, both Blood Red

flipping in fresh water,

Together, they will stay
As close as any
Best friends will

slapping at sparks of light
gleam from small beams,

They will argue
They will hate
But
They are always

My spirit is'bright white one'

Looking forward to tomorrow

A dry, clear day of the green earth

When, they can
Begin again
With a New Sun
With a Fresh smile

I have reached damp water.

off the bright white sun

Changing them into evaporation
of clear white cloud

72

73

Myrtle Johnson

Myrtle Johnson

This Windy Dusty Day

Like a Child
I sing like a Child
I sing of Indians
Dancing in Blue Smoke
Reaching the warm Earth.
For the echoing
of a far gone whisper
I touch the yellow flames
burning, leaving ashes behind
I see the Indians laughing
Grabbing each other, hand in hand
They have reached their spirit
Coming from the winds,
. Over the cold shining lake
In the early morning
I sing, I dance
I dance in the Blue Smoke
With long forgotten Indians
I will be one of them
Reborn in myself
Like a Child

74

This windy dusty Day
in Alkali with the
Warm wind searching over the land
to melt the cold snow
So that is so dark
The dust covers and
Dances on this ice of water
Water is trickling down
rocks, sand, weeds and
all things new to spring.
It whistles, with the trees
swaying in the air.
The dust makes circles
of winds
The designs reach into
the blue sky
I cover myself. I will
have to wash. In the
wind, I watch my child
They say the woodtics
travel with the wind.
Then land on your clothes
woodtics climb in your
hair and bite into
the skin. It is bad
I stay inside
and watch the wind

75

Pow Wow Fever by Cheryl Blood(Ohmyahsin)
Cold hard concrete, loud muffled sounds from the announcer's
microphone echo's in my head.
Sounds bounce all around the room, my ears struggle to interpret
Dust fills my nostrils, while I sit slumping in my cold plastic chair.
Looking through the acrylic panes encircling the hockey rink.
I watch dancers of all guises dance to the beats of vibrating loud
muffled drumming and chanting.
On cold concrete floor where winter's ice once lay,
Children run freely, uninterested.
"Is the Pow wow spirit here yet?"
''I don't feel it, do You?"
Colorful outfits of all makes and styles;
Traditional, Fancy, Buckskin, Grass, Jingle, Clown, and
even Jig dancers adorn visions of silently watching spectators eyes.
- Competition now sets in - different categories, dancers displaying
their fancy footwork.
young to old do their best to catch the judge's eye,
ballots are counted.
Now they introduce Pow wow queen and Runner ups
Name Giving Ceremony "Buffalo Woman, I think he said," and the
name
so fitting
Honor dance everyone stands, Queen and family follow, dancing
behind
each other to a complete circle.
Giveaway Dance Ceremony now, I don't ever receive anything
anyhow,
Think I'll go for a coffee!

76

SEAGULL

77

Arnold Louie

The sensation of being in flight on a new summer day in the
O~agan Valley w~secondonlytothefeelingofa full gut. Which
reminded me, I hadn t had my breakfast yet! The craving for food
or lack of it was normal for a web-footed sea fowl like myself.
I fluttered my way towards the city to solve the deficiency
inside my moaning belly. I landed downtown on the top of the
Bank of Commerce in Penticton and looked at the street below me.
Before I could think further, the smell of food instinctively brought
my attention to Main Street. As I looked and found there below me,
at the comer of the street, the hot dog stand one of my cousins had
told me about. The fresh smell of toasted franks was enough to
hypnotize any starving seagull. With that in mind, I bravely flew
down to get a closer look to plan my attack.
I landed on a nearby bench trying to look lost as I boldly
inched my way closer to the stand. My strategy was, that if I came
close enough I could use the strength in my wings to carry me over
~e ~11, and like an eagle snatch my hotdog and fly away. But, it
d1dn t take me long to find out the hotdog owner must have
experienced my kind before. I alertly focused my attention to the
sling s~ot he withdrew from his pocket. It didn't take me long to
recogruze that the marbles that were being launched from his sling
shot we~e aim~ at me. Just when I turned and began to fly away,
I felt a direct hit on the side of my head which grounded me to the
pavement in a bird crash.
The next thing I could feel was the earth tremble to which
brought me to open one eye and noticed the hotdog stand owner
was running towards me. A sudden irrational fear of being thrown
in a city garbage can brought me to my feet.
I quickly began to flap my wings getting ready for takeoff,
as my tortured body started down the runway of the city sidewalk.
The hotdog stand owner wasn't as slow as I thought. He gave me a
boost with the side of his foot that not only contributed to my air
travel, but also motivated me in the direction of the heavens as the
instincts of survival kept my wings flapping until I came to the top
of the Bank of Commerce.
Standing there as a slight breeze blew against my ruffled
feathers my head began to ache. Obviously that was not a way to fill
an empty stomach. So without delay I readily took off to scout a less
dangerous area of being a scavenger. I perched myself on the top of

a telephone pole by Parkers Dodge car lot, I looked out below me
and felt ashamed. Life had not been fair to me as I looked at my
webbed feet. I seen my cousins below me waiting for their daily
meal of McDonald's garbage being ushered out the door, anticipating foreign food of any kind to hit the pavement. At first my
stomach wanted to join them but then I thought, is this what life is
all about. Fighting my family every day for a few pieces of rotten
leftovers.
Why are my feet webbed? How come I don't have the claws
of an eagle or a hawk? Then I would be able to kill my own food
instead of being the local bum I am. The idea of being an eagle made
me excited as I took that thought and soared above the town. So as
I began to glide through the air I tried to think what it would be like
to search for real prey. Rather than the leftover throw away food my
body had grown accustomed to. Caught up in my own fantasy
while flying down, Main Street, my eyes zeroed in on a medium
sized cat.
My stomach growled as my famished body became alive! So
like the macho bird my thoughts had perceived me to be, I swooped
down for the kill. The closer to the ground I came the more I began
to realize the size of the cat.
I arrived in ill humor and tried to puncture the cat's neck
with my webbed feet and at the same time fly away with him. It
became apparent that my feet have no muscles in them to control
such a hostile animal let alone fly away with him.
My next reaction was to instantly throat him with my strong
powerful beak as I quickly attacked the jugular area. Instantly this
action of thrusting my fragile pecker into such a thick hide brought
tears to my eyes. The cat must have been pretty hungry himself
because before I knew it I was at the bottom and the cat's mouth
had me by the throat trying to kill me. I couldn't do anything so I
started to panick, I was in a fight for my life.
Instead of trying to kill, I was about to be eaten by this
ferocious feline. I wasn't the eagle I thought I was and if it had not
been for a local store owner who came out with his broom and
clubbed us both I would have easily become digestive material.
Flying away, the blurred vision from the blow of the broom
brought me to face the reality that because of my day dreaming. I
had experienced what cat scratch fever was all about. So with that
I quickly began to think of a different strategy to fill the emptiness
in my stomach. I exhaustedly landed my weary body on a nearby

78

79

Seagull by Arnold Louie

Arnold Louie
house as I med to ignore my wounds by the thought of food, which
would heal any anguish that I felt. The pain started to set in which
made me come to the conclusion that I was a wanna be bird living
in a wanna be world. No matter what I did I could never be an
eagle. I still admired his ways. How he never lets his hunger change
his environment. He would starve before he would bring himself to
be the vagrant bird that I am. I guess a wanna be world is what
created bums like me.

Seduction by Nana
lay next to his
to suckle her breast
heat to heat
sensations
joining them as one

Coyote shuffled down the path,
yellow eyes shining,
tongue lolling
Stopping suddenly,
Coyote cocked his head
ears pointed
one eye cast downward
leg poised

Coyote's passions rose,
gift forgotten
Teeth flashed
sinking into tender flesh
of rounded shoulder and neck

There in the gi:ass
a brilliant shining light

She was motionless
an inner scream
shattered the stillness
Withdrawal,
of trust
of friendship
of warmth
of love and dreams

Coyote gazed
transfixed
as the light grew
From its center
steeped a beautiful woman
srmling
hand outstretched
palm upward

Brilliant light fragmented
magic shards shattered
like suns reflections
on windy waters

Coyote did not move .
primal instincts prevailed

Coyote stood alone
He had forgotten the gift
offered
in trust and love
It too was gone

The woman grew in size
black hair ana eyes
dark skin
scent of sage and cedar
A woman of sun and earth

Coyote trotted down the path
heart and stomach
still hungry

She spoke
I have a gift for you
Yes,
a gift, she said
Of friendship
for you

No god
no hero
just Coyote

Coyote's skin tingled
Her womanly curves
enveloped him
full ano soft
He yearned to hold her
touch her hair
feel her warm form
80

81

Mary Ann Gerard

Chrisbnas Day by Mary Ann Gerard
What if all the alcoholics on earth
gathered here tonight.
Would you be there, Daddy?
Swinging chains and cursing the
seven little whores you fathered?
Over there! I see someone I know.
The boy I loved,who hit my eye,
the boy I married who took
my trust and tore the paper
binding from the satin dreams.
I spilled whiskey on my leather.
My kitchen table, stained with wine-rings

Christmas Day, Part II
Another Christmas day.
You wear your drunkeness
like a corsage
red and green pipe cleaners amok,
dangling silver bells clinking
Lids of beer bottles
tinkle forth all day
and the kids shuffle through them
while they cry for more toys.
My new shoes didn't quite fit.
Too bad you hawked the stereo
to buy them.
You smile your holiday smile.
I'd like to hawk that;
teeth for money,
all those pearls for some cash.
Later in the alcohol soaked
yeasty smelling amber night,
you knocked my two front teeth out.
A memory for our family
that screams violence
every winter
when we see Santa.

disappeared the next day.
A knife and a five dollar bill
were left under the mattress.
Someone-Oh God, I don't remember whobroke the light bulb and
I picked the glass
from Baby's feet.

82

83

Deb Clement

Eon Ago by Deb Clement

WeCry

it seem like eon ago
when i was there
fight'in it, not likin' it
bein' angry 'cause o' my pain
at my loss
at alienation
my self was lost, it was sacred
but on my road
i met a man - he was cree too
who gave me a story
it said: keep goin'
don' look back, you find what it is
you'r lookin' for
an' when you do, keep it, hold it
it is sacred
so now today and ev'ryday
i need to have it: the story
comes back to me
it is like find'in a friend
after a long sep'rationhavin' wonder at what was
happen'in to my frien'
why was my frien' lost to me
i'd ask
now today i know
the path i travel
brings healin'
it brou't back me
my frien', my self
it seems like eon ago
that time when i was lost
in al'co'l

you laugh we cry
at your ridicule
of our sacred ways
we cry
we try to preserve
our identity
you laugh as we try
to hold what is sacred
you laugh
we try to explain to s~re
you ridicule
you dig up our ancestors
we cry
you study us
we continue strugglin'
against your contamination
we cry
you tell us to
assimilate
we cry our secrets
we will not tell
you ask us for the key
it is respect
the native "problem"
was given to us
we are blamed
for "our" problem
we want to choose
from your offerings
of civilization
youlaugh
we cry
we will continue
our struggle

84

.

85

I

Just Beginning by Colleen Seymour
Have you ever journeyed with the sun
as it starts and ends a day?
Have you ever journeyed with the sun
as it starts and ends each day
for four consecutive days?
The gray light, where anything can happen, awaits
The blanket of silence, so thick you can wear it
Ecstacy is to witness birth
Woodbumt smoke curls lazily, as rocks are heated
Like Granny, the icy-cold water has its own language
Rejoice
as each fir bough is appropriately placed
Have you ever felt the presence of strong spirits?
They are spoken to
in a Native tongue, which is much stronger than the babble of
The wise one's speaking or singing
is instantaneous
Seriousness or lightheartedness
changes
depending on the assistance one seeks
At times, the old one's waivering voice
speaks through the innocence of a child
Only the strong ones listen
For those who fail to observe
something
which is not concrete
invisible are the spirits
Experience the inner self, with those moments of experience
Have you ever journeyed?

86

I know who I am by Donna K. Goodleaf
colonizer, my enemy
I will confront and challenge you.
I will neither accept nor conform to your lies
I will challenge you
I know who I am
I study you, I watch you, eyes of a hawk
I know your history, I have studied it
colonial history, full of lies
.
history of tyranny, massacres, disease, theft, state terronsm
history of genocide
that is your history
your identity, "proud american/canadian"
"This is my historical roots" you shout
what is an 'american' or 'canadian?' I ask you
you have no roots here, rootless one
prisoned mind, confused mind
history of confusion
that is your history
Indigenous Nations, histories of resistance
we are clans, nations, ever so strong
our roots, one with mother earth
this land, Turtle Island
Kalanerskowa, Great Law of Peace
ancient constitution of Hauderosaunee people
history of survival, this is my history
I know who I am
Kanien kehakaneha - People of the Flint
Kahenrakwas, woman, ever so strong
history of survival,
this is my history
I know who I am

87

Journey by Kerrie Charnley & Greg Young-Ing
I.

The day fell upon me like birth
and I awoke as if I had just discovered a new religion
The sun shone like a neon cross in an eclipse
and I knew that I was about to love something
for the first time
On this day I would walk across a new territory
which my feet would press like a virgin
I was about to live again
raw and innocent
and all my sins were absolved

n.

GOOSENECK

The Moon glows over the light
of
beg!nning
and awoke inside of the dream
the house being dismantled
cousins parade in and out
smiling sadness my way
I walk through seeing
the wooden homemade swaytun
Aunt Margie walks to the spot
starts to dance shake cry sin& Indian
I start c~ng towards a I in here I shal my lover misunderstanding
trying to rescue me
doesn't understand this dream is what is rescuing me
from this place from generations of this place
towards wholeness
where all places all times become one
and I am able to see tomorrow
I was beginning to see tomorrow
when tears here merged with Indian tongues tones movements
in that dream that yesterday and lateral cousin consciousness
like an orgasm that nearly was now I will have to begin again
turning subtle sensations into mercury stars
of consciousness subconsciousness
the blood flows through me in tongues
in daylight moon flows through me
the tongue a memory held taut within my womb ....

mr

88

89

Art Napoleon

It was such a bright lazy kind of August day that Nap could
have kept drifting downstream without even bothering to paddle.
Afterall, he was his own kind of man, with nobody to answer to, no
deadline to meet or plan to follow. His makeshift canoe, consisting
more of sprucepitch than actual birchbark, would eventually get him
to Gooseneck's camp, about six miles to the west as the crow flies.
He might be there by nightfall and if not, he would camp somewhere
along the way, that is if the canoe would hold up.
The Kiskatinaw is a gentle river with just a few rapids to really worry about, but nothing Nap wasn't used to. It was good elk
country ranging from open hillsides to low bushlands mostly redwillow and alderbrush. Much of the river was crowded with steep
banks that cut sharply into the dark waters in a gigantic V-form. It
was through each of these passages that the river narrowed and deepened, which made it practically impossible to land any canoe. At
the end of each passage the river would widen again allowing Nap
to see on either side for a fair distance. He had been through this country
a few times before but always on horseback, never by river.
Nap could remember certain landmarks along the way where
he had hunted with his dad. He knew of a good mooselick somewhere
up ahead, not too far from the river, but wasn't too sure how to get
to it. Nap remembered the heavily used gametrail that his dad had
showed him. It was the main trail to the lick, so if he could find it,
Nap figured he could check the lick for signs.
Nap was hot and sweaty by midday, so he quickly pulled off
his moccasins and shirt. He swatted at the horseflies swearing to himself
as he tried to roll the last of his tobacco. His feet were dirty and
calloused and just for the hell of it, he struck a match on his bare heel
and was about to light a smoke when he noticed a familiar looking
Barn tree up ahead. He recognized the unusual twist part way up the
trunk. Nap looked around intently and had that feeling he had been
here before."Sonufabits!" he yelled, as the match burned his fingertips. Nap put away his tobacco, landed the canoe, picked up his 3030 and started looking for the traillike a hound after blood. He knew
this was it About two hundred yards from the river there was a small
clearing with lots of muskeg and an underground trickle. Nap had a
fast drink and veered off to the left through a thick stand of young
pine. There he spotted the trail, a twisting groove in the underbrush
that looked old and unused far from the way he remembered it. He

wondered if maybe the lick had been abandoned. Sometimes moose
will do that, he thought. They'll just suddenly stop using a lick for
some reason. Nap wondered if they knew whenever too many
humans were coming around. He slowed his pace to a quiet cat's
crawl as he neared the lick area. the sun was breaking through the
overhead populars in long straight rows shedding its heavy light
on the edge of the trail. He sensed there was something wrong when
he saw the tracks of a moose that had been startled. Not caring to
be quiet anymore he searched the east side of the lick for wolf or
bear tracks, whatever scared that moose away and kept others from
comingin.
Nap was an excellent tracker, justlike his father. Hechuckled quietly as he thouht of the tricks he used to pull on the Hudson
Bay boys when he hunted for their crew. One time he'd dropped to
his knees and pretended to taste some fresh elk tracks they had come
across. One of the Bay bigshots they called Clark had yelled excitedly, 'Whatisit? Whatisit?" and wasactuallyready to start shooting at something. "Itsa threeyearold virgin ....! thinkshe'sinheat,"
was Naps casual response. Clark who was not amused by this attitude, later fired him for being a "smart-assed Indian."
A loud ring of snapping branches jolted Nap back to reality,
but as he turned to face the commotion, it was too late. It hit him full
force, head on, Knocking him flat to the ground gasping for air. As
he tried to crawl to his gun,she reared back and came at him again,
tlrls time with killing force. Everything happened so fast. There was
no time to get scared, no time to care or think. She shook him violently and somehow Nap could taste her fur as he tried to squirm
away, Instinctively struggling to survive like he had seen so many
animals do. Fierce brown and spewing red was all he could see as
she blew hot breath down his back grunting in a way that would terrify
the bravest of men. She had her full weight on his helpless body and
all he could do was lie there and try to breathe. He had already accepted his death as he thought about Goosenecks.
When Nap regained consciousness all he could do was open
one eye. The other one was pasted shut with dried blood. He couldn't
see the bear but he sensed she might be watching. Sharp jolts of pain
shot through his rib-cage and head. For the first time in his life Nap
wasafraid. Nowheheardhercomingagain and hetensedhisbody
in preparation for another attack. But suddenly, she stopped short
and turned back. He could see her now out of the comer of his eye.
She stood on the hill panting and looking down, proud of what she'd

90

91

Goosenecks by Art Napoleon

I

11

i,

!
,,i;
I,

1,

'I

I

"'i

ii
'i

,I
!

Art Napoleon

Art Napoleon

done. She came charging again and stopped short, running back
uphill. It seemed like a game, But Nap figured she was testing her
meal to see if it was dead. He lay as still as possible for the longest
two hours of his life.
Nap looked over the damage to his body as he tried to gather
his wits about him. His old body had never been through so much
before but he knew he could make it only if he could get back to the
river, a quarter mile away. He hadn't heard any noise for awhile
and it was close to evening, so he figured he'd take his chances. He
reached up to his face to pull some dried blood when he realizd that
the skin over his forehead had been clawed pretty good, leaving part
of his skull exposed. He untied the scarf from around his neck and
made a headband topreventfurther bleeding. Nap slowly and painfully gathered his rifle and part of his shirt, which he used to tie a
gash on his upper arm. There was no looking around for the beast,
it was straight to the river for Nap. He kept having visions of her
charging at him. He walked a fast as he could, butitdidn't seem fast
enough. He kept sensing her presence behind him. He knew that
bears don'tleave their kills for very long and a couple of times he
could have sworn he heard something heavy crashing through the
brush. Nap fought his way through what seemed like a mile of alder
and willow that kept slapping at his good eye. He never bothered
once to look down and see if his feet were even on the trail.
His beat-up water-filled canoe never looked so good. Nap
was so glad to be alive that he didn't mind the pain so much, but he
staggered as he tried to get into the canoe. He had lost too much
blood. If he could only make it to Gooseneck' she knew he would be
taken care of. Nap finally managed to sit himself in the canoe and
balance himself. The cold water had felt good. He was surprised to
find his front pocket still intact, tobacco pouch and all. He cracked
a faint smile as he started to roll a cigarette thinking that he had truly
earned it.
The river was nearing another cutbank when he spotted
the bear on the rivers edge. He picked up the 30-30 and cranked the
lever. The bear followed the riverbank at the same pace as the canoe, keeping her hungry eyes on Nap until she could follow him no
more. She was stopped by the sharp slant of the cutbank, and the
only way to continue would be to walk back over a high, long hill
choked with dense buckbrush. Nap raised his gun and took aim with
his one eye. He had the sights set right on the spot behind the shoulder-blade. It would penetrate her lungs and she would eventually

bleed to death. "I should have finished you off when I had the
chance you bastard!" He yelled at her. The bear just stood and stared,
looking like she'd lost the world. ''What the hell," he thought. ''It's
not my shooting eye anyway." He lowered his gun.

92

93

Nemiah by Cody Williams

Training For Motherood by Joann Thom

At my dad's far away in the mountains
lots of fun
Fishing ...
Pool...
going hunting
At my dad's far away in the mountains

Sit quiet
Listen carefully
Pay Attention
Keep your eyes focused on a fly spot
on the wall
just to the left of her shoulder
Avoid eye contact
Don't be too forward
toomoniyaw
Pretend your face is covered
with a carved wooden mask
Don't betray the emotions
that you feel, my girl,
When grandmother tells you,
like she told me,
''Never beat your sons," my girl,
"You can beat girls,
but you can't beat your boys."
You see, my girl,
We can be beaten-but not the boys.

Feed chickens Attack...
Eggs

Chasing the rooster
At my dad's far away in the mountains
Going to Grannie's
Frogs...
Horses...
. Eating Indian Ice Cream
At my dad's far away in the mountains
Wish I would be back there
Dad ...
Ruby...
It won't be long now.. .
It won't be long now.. .

94

95

Untitled by Leah E. Messer
Our souls cry out to be set free
For we can no longer find the people
Who we use to be
This place...once.. .long ago
Was our home
You have changed who we were
With the offer of your helping hand
What was once ours ..is now ...
Just your foreign land
You have turned our home ...this land...
Into a place called uncertainty
And uncertainty...your horrible trap
Has taken away our dignity
Now we search and we struggle
For a way to be free
Why do you not let us speak,
For we have a story that must be told
Is it because you know there is truth
In the tales of events that our hearts must unfold
We ask that you please let us speak
Don't ask us to forever hold our peace
We must leave your place of uncertainty
For it is time we tell our story
It is time... to give us back our dignity.

96

Life by Eriel Deranger
Life is like Dominos
The first row to fall is childhood
The second row to fall is young adulthood
Which they call teenage years
The third row to fall is adulthood
Next comes Elders, where everybody must be very kind
It is very unwise to be unkind to Elders
because one day you'll be one yourself
You wouldn't like to be yelled at when you're old
Finally we get back to the dominos
·After the elder stage falls, I'm not sure
Nobody knows till they get there.

97

COMING THIS FALL FROM

Fifth House Publishers

The White Line
poems by Daniel David Moses
The poems in The White Line are rich
and delightful. Daniel David Moses' verse is taut, melodious,
humorous and questioning. His subjects are often simple and
ordinary, but his sense of the spiritual in the everyday makes
the normal numinous.
"... precise, perceptive and powerful. ... poetry of spirit and
integrity." -Douglas Barbour, Quarry

MILK

RUNNIN'

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4A2

99

Leonard Fisher, Jr.

Milk Runnin" by Leonard Fisher, Jr.
" ...be right back! Don't worry!", climbed into the pickup
da!lli', thing better work no_w. What's a guy gotta' do for peace and
quiet round here, damn kid screams loud for milk then louder for
spilt ~k, ju~ps up an' do~ on the bed like he's possessed, plays
me against his ma 6ettern' a diplomat- shit. Here I'm runnin' off for
milk an' breakfast cereal..~eeeeezus!
If I could I'd take em back to his pa stand him an' his mom
side by side, get the ~y to take a good look an' say,
"I understan the attraction but I ain't resp~msible for the
re~ult," then grab Paulinl;' s hand an' piss off down the road; easier
said than done I guess. Am't taken much more though. Rain's done
miracles 'round here overnight.
Never seems to amaze me though, happens time an' time
agin, same time every year. Funny filings like that jus' pass
tfuough your life an' ya expect 'em as though they're rewards for
makin' it through another day or somethin'.
It rains the desert blooms. So what else is new ya' ask
yourself? It don't rain everythin' sdusty an' chokin' hot. After a rain
flowers pop up like gophers, all purple or blue, little yellow centers
clu_mfs green grass here an' there - smells real fresh, no dust
flym up m your eyes...,makes a guy feel like writin' somethin' like
poetry or whatever.
If a t}pewriter could be attached right into yer head an'
thoughts could just float on through without havin' to peck away
at some ol' letter-clunker then I'd be away, if there were somethin'
like that there'd be no problem. It'd be better than half o' what
Pauline reads me most of the time.
" ... ridin' bareback without a bridle" that's about the only
stuff I could understand the rest sounds like bullshit as far as I'm
concerned.
This road here, it always sends me mindwalkin' if I had that
brainwriter now I tell ya' there'd be no stoppin' me believe it. No
matter how I'm feelin' or what mood I'm in comin' up here's like
gettin' birthed right out of the mountains.
Gigantic canyon walls close enough t' touch when ya' go
~hrough some o' the curves an' about three different stripes o' red
JUSt at eye level alone; then when ya' start squintin' from watchin'
the road an' countin' layers ya' go, POW!, out onto the plateau.
Then there's nothin' but flat far as ya' can see.
Flatness, hundreds an' hundreds o' miles straight away, all
this color from blood red clay baked under the sun, flowers everywhere, boulders here an' there movin' no faster than they did ten
thousand years ago still crawlin' outta the ground.
There's poetry out there; right here where I'm standin'. Never know
what's to find out here but I sometimes stop for a look 'round, ain't
found an arrowhead or anything like that but there's lots a' small

o:

100

bones; stoppin' at different spots maybe somethin' historic'll pop
out an eaten my eye.
Just lookit this place, it don't surprise me now how t~t
hitcher-p}rl almost went crazy when we got up here, must be qmte
amazin for someone out from the coast. .., came quite a ways from
where she started that's fer sure. Didn't seem to bother her thouP-h,
looked right at home, meandering around barefoot, skirt floatin on
the breeze around them filly tliighs, I was just waitin' for her
silhouette. Pure, innocent beauty all alone out there in the world,
out here on the desert dance floor, movin' to the hiss of heat comin'
out the rocks an' the rattle...
Looks like Harv's truck pullin' up just now, ain't that a
lau9h 'cause mypick-up'sparked somewhere everybody figgers
shes had her dar, well out here I sup~se he thinks I'm biol down. Yep, there he goes lookin' under the hood, at least he'll find
a surprise.
"Check the tires while yer at it son, an be quick about it!"
Poppin' out from beneath the hood he wipes his hands on the back
of his jeans like he normally does, everybody knows where Harv's
been an' where he sits. At tbe diner there's 'Harv's seat', at the bar
there's 'Harv's seat', nobody sits in 'em 'cept Harv cause they're all
seasoned with a thick layer of oil and grease.
"Pretty damn nice work eh Harv, did all the wirin', oil filter,
gas filter... you name it. Finished up last night."
"Yeah but didcha set u~ the carb properly this time? You're
gonna have trouble if ya' didri t."
He waves a taunting finger like some ol' house mother, if
he'd just put a hand on his hip now it'd be the spittin' image; big,
rotund body, face so brown the grease barely gets to tell anybcxfy
he's a hard there again. Could sleep under the stars or in bacl< a' the
truck if it gets too cold, canopy's good enough if I need a little
privacy, last time me an' that hitcher slept there.
That was a good one alright....
Even after she'd been hoppin' an' bouncin' all over the
dance ring, doin' everything from ~ass to traditional stuff; wild,
chestnut colored mane flyin'back an forth like it carried rhythm for
her, anything them folks would teach her she learnt it like it was in
her blood, boy you wanna' talk about ridin' bareback with no bridle!
There she was that night with her nostrils flared like the last
wild mare bein' chased in a 6ox canyon, lyin' in the moonlight all
sparkly wet like a black diamond, smellin' like a musky, desert rose
on the evenin' breeze; she tasted like salt-honey an' creek water
when I kissed them sweet little sun-baked cheeks..., damn belt
buckle - boy what a woman she'd be to have around.
Wasn't craey or a vapabond or anythin' like that either just
out lookin' fer somethin', ya could see it m her eyes like they was
always focused inside, there was somethin' she was after. Full of
energy too, that's the way~ple get when they go questin', not like
you'o think, not full of problems or doubt them type a' people go
IOI

Leonard Fisher, Jr.
lookin' to solve their problems, only way they'd be able to go on
livin'.
Harv was sayin' somethin' about his brother's wife heard
she'd gone up north after Santa Fe that year, headed up into Canada
or Aloerta; probably 'round Jake's place I guess thafs who's wife
she spent most of her time with when she weren't dancin' or talkin'
with them goddamn Wannabees....
Jake'll probably be gettin' himself ready soon too I imagine,
might not nave enough drummers 'til he gets down into
Montana.. .l'm out on the milk run anyway ain't I, might as well be
ridin' bareback.

Suicidal Tendency by Kateri Damm
i can hardly believe
the way the deep blue sky surrounded the bone bare tree limbs
that knocked against each other in the sun
the same way we knock against each other
in these small rooms
was it only yesterday
before the sun hit
the eastern side of our sky
that i wounded myself
to prove the depth of my skin
(have you ever noticed the sun when it is a blood red song of war)
did you know
i have sung a thousand songs to your mood swings
written a thousand poems of the echoes
without finding the words you won't be able to forget
even after a thousand thousand suns have kissed this tongue
of sky
so do you even care
that you are my suicidal tendency
do you even care
that i rumble through the dry grass of august
to lay under the stars at night
because i can't bear to sit in the cold light of silence
between us
i can't even lie to myself
and say
you don't matter to me
the truth is like a mirror i haven't been able to tum away from
though i can't even see myself anymore
truth is
i can't see the lines separating us
truth is
it's scary
one night i dreamt
that when the sun shone on my heart i dissolved
into the lines on your face
and you smiled

102

103

A Dear Friend's Battle by Margaret Warbrick
I.When nothing comes easy
Reality becomes a nightmare
The unwanted tears and emotions
He doesn't realize problems can be solved..
2.He doesn't want the goodness of others
He lost his ride, goals and his dreams.
He delivered his soul to the midnight devil.
He, no longer owns himself, only to others.
3.Delivering the goods to strangers
Alive or dead he takes the chances
Life slowly squeezes the games
He lives only as he receives the money.
4.The gutter or trash, the innocent dies
_Blinded and scattered life deals
Addicted to crack, it's his life
He will do anything to be high
5.Dues are paid with life
He's cold, distant and angry.
Sniffing, overdose, and bleeding noses
What a life, he really thinks he's living
6.He owes himself better, come alive
He discarded the happiness for something deadlier
He was conned and played with the ball
In the end crack will cling if hope doesn't exist.
7.Hope glimmers as he remembers the old life
He wants to come clean, a will to live
Slowly gaining respect within his soul.
He found help and grabs the rain-bow ray.
8.He found himself, the people, he's winning
One day at a time he's living to come clean.
That's life,That's reality, that's living
He reclaimed his lost soul and his life.
104

Testimonial by Conrad George
to be free and harmonious
to have nothing else
to stumble from
to have my positive feelings
in tune
to achieve Greatness is my
quest
to follow the hints, dancing
all bout me
guiding me to heights
motion to memorable sounds
placing footsteps lovingly
upon familiar grounds
Allowing music in my mind
to lead me
toward the freedom of my search...
(TESTIMONIAL) being human...
an adult
child within
I am forty years old
I look back into my past
see as a child
my suffering at the hands of another culture
I look through the pains of growing
growing up in the home of guardians
guardians who hate themselves
and hurt others
In the beginning
I existed
I had two loving parents
parents who were also victims
of the other culture
parents who drowned their
despair in alcohol
I was taken and placed

105

•

Conrad George

Conrad George

•

in a white home.
There were two other natives
who were found to be my sisters
the Guardians who housed them
took me and my little sister
in as well
our new home was not even an hour old
our Guardians began slamming things
around, yelling awful things
Their first words were
"fm going to beat the Indian out of
you and make you white"
that beating was to last
for the next eleven years
eleven years of beatings that
had nothing to do with discipline
both Guardians added their
abuse upon us equally
the hard part for me was
being forced to go to them
and hug them every day
I cannot recall any wrongs
I do not want to hate people
I know now it is because of them
that I find it hard to show or
to give love to anyone
unannounced flashbacks
send me into the grips of recurring
nightmares
these nightmares are always the same
only the faces have changed
turning into people
I live amongst now
I see and hear again
with a child's eyes and ears
incapable of escaping or finding help
Today, (my being)
The life within strains to reach out

106

to share warmth, kindness, and
togetherness
with family and friends
when such things appear possible
something awful interferes which
makes me Rebel, makes me push people away
I have read books
about suicide about self-denial
in these readings I have found that
I too have become a statistic
that this is an end result
I have found that suicidals usually attack
themselves
where they hurt the most
I ask myself "where is it that I really
hurt the most?"
I consider which door should I open
to rid myself of this extreme burden
which tool would bring total peace
which method should I self-inflict
to empty out this silent pain
to empty out this feeling
the result of knowing
knowing about abduction by another culture
knowing about the care of such cruel guardians
I ask "What part of myself should I destroy''
to destroy the intense pain
the Pain that controls my anger and hate
I recall promises I have made to myself
it is because of these promises
that I am alive and here today
promises that remove my need to
self-destruct
Quiet painful memories haunting me
understanding this pain and its
point of creation
that gives me strength to live
the strength to become a vehicle
of wellness for other children of
my culture who were abducted
107

Conrad George
and placed in abusive guardianship
People who recall that they too were carved
by these same destructive tools
(TESTIMONIAL) no matter (etc.)
No matter what grows in my
Field of Dreams
I could never reveal to another
by the sparkle in my eyes
this warm place in my heart
beating Love stronger Love every beat
I thrive there thinking of you
In my field of Dreams
where sunlight pours out its warmth
soothing hearts filled with strife
I think of you wanting you
still needing you YOU a flower
one of many a living part of
my bouquet of loving memories
a million flowers grow there
in my field of dreams
each flower a reflection of a heartbeat
each a gift from all hold so dear there
Seasons, will never change my love
Reasons,_ will never replace my caring
Need, will never keep me from sharing
the heartbeats
in my field of dreams...

A Childhood or Was It? by Don Wind
Pain etched in my eyes, the lines
on a drawn face, the timidness of
thyself. A face full of sorrow,
of tears, of years of abuse.
Slap, slap! Stop. Will you shut-up!
Knees quivering, lips trembling
Eyes full of streaming tears. Don't
hit me! Don't hit me!
I can't move! Rooted to the spot!
Too scared to move. Too scared to run.
Will I be hit more? How much more?
Don't know what to do!
Too scared to sit by my older brother at
meal time.
He'll slug me if I clank the fork on my teeth
Home drunk again. We hide
Get in the car! No, you're drunk
Dragged outside! Screaming!
He tries to drive the car. We land up in
the ditch on a cold morning.
He swears. He passes out!
So cold and afraid.
He makes a swipe at me. I hit back.
Just making a grocery list. I run
He grabs me and hits me on the nose
It bleeds
He hits me again across the face and my
glasses go flying
He shatters them into pieces.
We don't need the dogs, the puppies!
I'll show you what I'm going to do!

108

109

Don Wind
He grabs me by the arm and out we go to the dogpen. Gun
in hand, he shoots the poor, helpless puppies Now watch me, he
said! Exploding shots. Dad is drunk again. We hide. He calls us
out. We stand there quaking. Then he's mad. What happened?
Table in half. Dishes and food go sliding to the centre and to the
floor. We run under the crib. Ouch, ouch. My hair is caught in
springs. Bang, Bang, Bang, goes the crib. You kids come out from
under there. Sore bruised head. Headaches and tears and stomach
heaving. Soscared. dadisinjailagain. Nofood, no money. How
will we eat? No wood for the fires in the heater and the cookstove.
Us kids go and gather small chips of wood and make a fire.
Drunk;drunk;drunk. All the time it seems. Sleeping on the
couch, feel cold pistol at my rear. Wake up! Wake up! I'm going to
kill you! Laughing and laughing he says it again and again. Pull
down your pants! Do it! Now! Now! Fright, heaviness of sleep.
Scared again!
Drunks!Drunks,Drunks!
Wakeup, someone on top of me. Pantsdown,guysfrom the
reserve. I'm going to get you! I'm going to have you! You're mine!
Dark. Always at dark.
Can't scream! Can't move.Why! Why Why So many times!
Is this how life is?
Don't tell anyone. They won't believe you, says Michael as
he gropes me. Don't tell your parents or I'll lick you if you do! I'll
beat you says Michael. So frightened! Feelings and groping by a
drunk under the blankets. Help me Help me. Too scared to scream.
Where are you when I need you? Shouts, hits, slaps, used, punches,
dishes flying! Fight, Fight, Fight! Dad and my brother fight. Scuffle,
scuffle, they throw punches and hits at each other! Blood, blood,
Get out of here, you are no longer my son. Please, please don't say
that! We take them part. Boy are they strong! Bruises, bruises,
bruises We take Dad outside to calm him down. Bang! goes the .22.
My brother has shot himself through the mouth! Blood, blood,
blood! Taken by ambulance to the city. In hospital for months and
months. At home, he is now like a child. Crazy. Crazy. Crazy...
Years of his craziness and drunkeness go on. Abuse continues. He
is hard to deal with. So mean. yet so pitiful! Why Why?! It is now.
Oh, how I want to forget! I can't! Can I forgive? I will when I am
ready!
Do I? I don't know.
Help me to write this out.
I know I can.... There is more
110

A Native Eider's Solitude by Andy P. Nieman
He stood upon the wind swept shore
And gazed across the land,
Shuffled his feet to stir some heat
Blew warm air in his hands
His once black hair that now turned grey
Fell braided at his sides,
The pain of seventy years gone by
Put sadness in his eyes;
This was his favorite hunting spot
He always got his game,
Since miners came with golden dreams
Nothing has been the same;
He couldn't stop his memory
From drifting back in time
When he still had his wife and kids
When life had been so kind
When the bitter winds of changes blew
New faces came to stay,
They brought their guns, enforced their laws
And took the land away;
He recalled how he shared with them
His food and all he had,
In return they filled him with high hopes
Then promises turned bad;
The more he lived the whiteman's way
The more he lost his grasp,
His independent way of life
Was slipping by too fast;
These days he worried for his kids
What would become of them?
For they were dependent on
A free welfare system;
111

Andy P. Nieman
Friends asked him many times to move
Into an old folks home,
But he had pride, would rather die
In his cabin all alone;
An icy wind blew from the North
That chilled his fragile bones
Another empty-handed day
Made it harder to go home
The gun felt heavy in his hands
As he trudged on through the snow,
He sat and rested by the trail
Alone in feelings of deep woe;

My Companion by Sheila Dick
Three decades or so ago
I closed the door upon myself,
Open only
to you
With your sad beckoning eyes and
cold demanding hands.
I warmed those hands,
Your hands, their hands and you
began to drain my life blood
from my
being
And,
I gave
and gave, i gave until
Like a leaf i dried to a shell
Of near nothingness
and drudged listlessly along
The frosty ground
Without direction and
Without Life.
Until,
So near to non-existence i came
Asunder
Your feet i lay, dry, crisp
and so near
Death.
You did,
You all did, you almost
Turned my precious
Fragile being into
Dust beneath your feet.
But a breath of life pulsed ever
so faintly
Through my veins and a gentle wind
Drew me away into
The Golden warmth of
Sunlight where I lay
A tormented heap.
All alone.

1!2

113

Sheila Dick
Then,
A flicker,
A small gasp of air,
A struggle for life
As each gulp tore at my burning lungs.
It all began painfully, like birth.
Then, a rush came thundering through my veins
And a shaky shadow of a hand
Grasped mine
(I later learned it to be my own)
And opened a door to Me.
Behind this door
Was a passionate person,
A being hat was ever so Brave
Ever so strong.
And my fascinating companion and I
Are true friends,
Now.
We hold hands,
We laugh,
and we cry.
Always one, side by side in the autumn winds
and the winter sun
We laze, sometimes relaxed
Oeanesed by the
'
Comfort and warmth of early Spring.

To Mom: by Karen Coutlee
Real Beauty is like my Mother's
Most of the time you don't see it or appreciate it.
Mother forgive me for the way I am
You weren't a bad Mother
It's just my own private devils I run away from.
I love you, I honestly do.
It's just that I can't show it
No matter how hard I try.
Please don't desert me because it will be
better one day.
I should be grown up but it still remains the
memories of the past that I live in.
I've almost hit bottom and when that happens
I'll bounce back up.

This one companion and I will
Sail thru the sunlight
Where frosty ground have
Given way to
Tender shoots of Life.

I promise.

For, you see,
My companion is Me
And I am She for
I am Brave and Strong, and I,
-I am Alive.

114

llS

Karen Coutlee

Thank you for Giving Me Birth
I thank you for giving me Birth
Even though I don't know you that well
For in this world I hold some worth.
I thank you for giving life to my Brothers and Sisters
Because then I know I am not alone
And I know I will always have a place to call home.
I hope you give your self a blessing for giving life to others
because it's not such a bad world to live in after all.
Even though it wasn't life's plan for us to be together
We'll stand side by side in stormy weather.

Fishermen

You know in this life I'm blesed with two fathers
now who can ask for anything more.
Be thankful for what you have
Because it far out weighs the other.

116

117

Glen James

''Why is it," questioned a young boy to his father, "that
Indians have everything old?" They were walking across an open
field to 9.et to the Little Nespelem Creek to fish.
'What are you talking about?" answered the man who was
somewhat taken by this query from his ten year old boy.
"I mean like that old pick-up right there going down the
road. "Indeed it was an old truck and hao all the s~ptoms of age
and neglect. It smoked and rattled and needed a muffler plus it had
numerous dents and some different colored body parts. More than
lil~ely too, it probably had yards upon yards of bahng wire holding
things together.
''Well son those boys are out of work and can't afford to fix
it. Repairs to an old truck can become quite costly.
"Like in town too, I mean those new houses in the projects
look old. Grandpa's house is old too."
"Yes it is, but he built it thirty years ago. And anyway why
all of a sudden do you ask these questions?"
The young lad hist walked in silence for a while seeming to
forget the whole thing. He pointed to a tall cottonwood tree where
a hawk had just landed. There was a nest high up in the branches.
A cool breeze rustled the stand of trees and blew a sweet fragrance
from the surrounding pond. Somewhere near the marsh wild mint
was growing.
"Last week on the last day of school when we were riding the
bus home one of the bigger white kids was mad. We were sitting in
the back of the bus and lie came and sat in front of us.I think he got
beat up at school or something. Me and Tony were talking about
something and laughing and he turned around and told us to shut
up or he'd beat thenell out of the both of us. He really glared and
he grabbed Tony by his shirt and pulled him forward and then
shoved his face so hard that the bad< of his head hit the back of our
seat. He began calling us names and said that all Indians were dir~
and lazy and ruined everything they touched. He said we didn t
know how to take care of anything the way white people do. He said
we didn't care if we lived in dirt or filth and that's wny everything
we have looks old. By then Tony pulled out his little p<?Cket knife
and was just opening it when the 6us stoppec! and the white kid got
off. He was laughing when he got off, but when he first saw Tony
pull out his knife I knew he was scared. I never thought about 1t
before but a lot of our houses are old."
They were almost to the creek and stopped alongside a
marsh to dig for worms. ''Watch out for those nettles behind you,"
said the fatlier as they kneeled and began to dig into the rich black
soil for some bait. livery shovelful otdirt proouced a handful of
worms and soon they had enough and put the shovel back into the
brush.

When they neared the creek a couple of mallard ~ucks _took
to flight and a kingfisher chattered loudly over hIS temtory
before flying up the creek and into the brush. Down the creek a
ways they heard a loud splash, a beaver sounding the alarm before
diving to safety. The creek was very brushy and the water was
cold beaver aamswereall along tlie creek. Youcouldn'tcastas
you ~ould at a lake you had to do 1t gently underhand or else you'd
snag up in some bush. The E(X>ls were full of big Eastern Brook
trout. They waded out toa big aam where they coula cast upstream.
As they stood on tlie beaver dam minnows darted about
!rying to steal their bait as they: reeled in the line to recast. "You
know son, I haven't been to school much but I'll try to answer
your question as best I can."
''That's O.K. dad you don't have to. I forgot the question
anyway.
.
d
d
''The way I think itis, is the whiteman never did un erstan
our ways our {>eople. You see they came here what, four hundred
years ag~. The ideas or the way they wanted to live is completely
different than Indian people. They want to have and to own as
much as they can more than even their brother has. Indians us~ally
will share anything they have. Even though there are many: different tribes from the east to the west, the way we looked at or thought
about the world was pretty much the same. You know just different
styles of ceremonies, but for the most part we all asked the same
things. Good health, food, happiness, a good road.
Now these whitemen started out in the east and came west.
They were farmers miners, you know whatever else there was.
They started out ~rand wanted a good life because in Europe or
wherever they came from, they were poo.r lowly: servants with ;no
hope of ever being rich or in a royal family or whatever _they_ pnze
as being good. Tal and he his children and so on. It becomes their blood. And so they
begin four hundred years or so ago and each generation moves
farther west and brings with him whatever he has learned. By the
time they get here to our land around here maybe three hundred
and fifty years go by.
.
The government opens up our land for white ~e!tlmg and
just like that liere is all these farmers around us. Now thIS 1s the part
that they don't understand and maybe it's just my thinking out I
believe 1t'snot too far from what's going o~. Reme~ber w~t I said
about whatever they're doing becomes their blood like farming. It's
the same with Indians. We were fishermen, hunters, traders. We followed the seasons with much care because it was our life. Mostly
though we depended on the salmon. See we are San Poil and liveo
along or close to the San Poil river since the Creator first made us.
It was one of the worlds best salmon rivers if not the best. It took care
of us. Now comes the government and he says he is $oing to build
a dam and everything is going to get better. So he builds one, two,
three or more dams and all of a sudden our beloved valley is under

ll8

119

Fishermen by Glen Jam.es

Glen James

Glen James

water. But what is worse, all the salmon are gone. They can't get
past the big dams. Now what this means is that after thousands of
years ofbemg fishermen we're nothing cause there is nothing to fish
there's no salmon.
I know this is a little hard to understand for you son or
maybe it isn't cause it seems kids nowadays pick up on things a lot
quicker than we did. But again back to the government. Tiiey say
our :eeople back then, you know my mom and dad, your Granpa
and Gramma, th~ tell them we'll send you to school and you can
become modem Indians. Forget the old ways, forget your superstitions, it's better to have education. Well that was hard on our people
cause our band was one of the last to resist the whiteman; we
wanted nothing from him just to be left alone. No more salmon for
them means tfie kids go hungry so in the end the children get
shipped off to boarding schools. They shipped them as far away to
places like Oklahoma, Kansas, Oregon and other places too. These
were usually run by catholics, and the sisters and such were mean,
very mean. You couldn't even talk your own language if you did
you were severely punished, or if you talked about medicine
aances or sang songs, you were pumshed. After my folks were
grown up and started naving chilaren, they love us so much and
3idn' t want us to suffer what they suffered so they never taught us
the language.Butit is like I said, once something ism your blood, it's
there for good.
That whole generation of Indians didn't realize that it
wasn't just language the whiteman hated, it was just being Indian.
They want our land. They want no Indians at all. So if you fook at it,
we have been ,iving this way for only sixty or so years and it has
taken the whiteman four hundred years to have what he has. But we
still have our belief in the land and our winter dances and the spirits
and these are truly the good things in life. If you treat them with
respec:t then you are making a good road for yourself and your
people, we'll never die off. We'll always have deer to hunt and land
for our horses. We don't question the power of the earth or of the
spirits. These are the real powers, they can easily destroy the most
powerful thing whiteman can invent in just a blink of an eye. So
having everytfting new would be nice but it's not the most important tliing to us.
Our homes might be old but inside they are clean. It's like
our sweat lod1ze it looks old but the power of it is so great the
whiteman can t understand it, so he considers it just a pile of rags.
But we know better. We understand these kind of things. But too,
now that our people are getting a college education and can understand the whiteman on his own level it might be another bad thing.
It's good that the whiteman can't lie to us, 6ut now some of our own
are treating us just as bad. But we know, we don't say anything
cause they can't cheat and lie and hide it. We know, The Creator
knows. But I could go on and on and that's not the answer for what
you asked. You see I could go to the city and work, but then we'd

all have to go. We'd not be able to do anything like we can now ~nd
it just isn't worth it. There's just too many crazy peo,P,le running
loose in cities. We couldn't go fishing or hunting or naing ho!ses
or sweat. Nothing. We'd just be in a fiouse, there's no companson
and so my choice is here. We have old things, but that's O.K. cause
we still have our freedom. You'll understand some day and make
a choice of your own cause ~ou'll have a family to think about. Do
you understand any of this."
"Well Ithoughtitwasbecausewecouldn'taffordit,butwe
can't afford not to be used to old I guess. I like old."
When they were finishoo cleaning the days catch they
counted twenty-one fish, all fourteen or more inch~s. qn the way
home a whitetail doe and her two fawns crossed JUSt m front of
them and the fawns stop~ and stared for a while. Their sp<>ts
were still predominant on their body and made them so delicate
looking Then the mother whistled and the fawns dropped to the
ground ~nd blended with the brush so as to seem to disappear. "You
see that learning, that's as old as the sal!l'on and ~af.s a ~aX_ of
surviving. There will always be deer so hke you said, old isn t so
bad."

120

PRESS GANG PUBLISHERS IS PROUD TO PRESENT:
SOJOURNER'S TRUTH

_by Lee Maracle

Urban settings, inter-racial issues and traditional
Native culture are the focus of this new collection
of stories.
Available Nov 1990 $10.95
NOT VANISHING

by Chrystos

Passionate, vital writing that addresses self-esteem
and survival, the loving of women, and pride in her
Native heritage.
$9.50

PRESS GANG PUBLISHERS
603 Powell Street, Vancouver, B.C. V6A 1H2 Canada
(604) 253-2537

121

Granny by Gerald Etienne
granny cares
to care is to live and suffer
granny has lived long
granny is hurt from all the suffering
Yet granny still cares
She cares for her children
granny cares for her grandchildren
granny helps in every way she can
she works
granny cans fruits and vegetables
granny cleans her home
she cooks
granny bakes bread and pies
she sews
granny makes gloves and moccasins
she teaches
granny tells us stories and lessons
she loves
granny tells us and hugs me
granny cares

122

Plenty of Lore, Plenty of Land byDavey C. Maurice
If a person decided to conduct a study about aboriginal
people in Canada, there would be no shortage of material available
for research purposes. In trying to decipher what is meant by
aborigine, from this literature, one would be overwhelmed with
images of savagery, deceitfulness and disgrace. Contemporary
society recognizes that Canadian aboriginal issues must be reassessed. Since the 'white paper policy' was introduced in the 1960s,
aboriginal peoples of various parts of Canada, hav;e taken a firm
stand against the Canadian federal government in search of their
separate identities. A large part of their struggles have been based
on more socio-economic problems. However, more recently the
trend has shifted to the political circles. Aboriginals are seeking
compensation and losses from land-claim titles, natural resource
royalties from aboriginal lands, and a system of self-government
within Canada's political structure. All of these mentioned are
pertinent to the aborigine's future existance. This process undertaken by the Canadian aboriginals has slowly developed from
isolated incidents across Canada into a full-blown national struggle.
This ongoing struggle is of great importance to the aboriginal
people of Canada, for without it, they all would be facing virtual
extinction.
What one must do in order to assess the current aborigine
situation in Canada, is research the literature made available by
Indian and Metis leaders alike. Of course, several inquiries and
commission reports have been structured, however, most of this
information is strictly a form of rhetoric provided by federal political groups, who in reality have no idea what should be assessed and
what is assessed. From reading many books, articles, and other
classroom materials, the image projected about aboriginals are in a
sad state. Some of this data actually portrays the truth, while many
of the other written articles are full of blasphemus remarks concerning Canada's history. Canadian history is a shameful story coupled
with rhetoric designed to mislead our younger generations into
believing that aboriginal people are inferior beings. In truth, if one
was to exclude any aborigial input into Canada's evolution leading
up to confederation, the historical material available would probably be just as absurd.

123

Davey C. Maurice

Davey C. Maurice
The Canadian aboriginals, regardless if they were status or
non-status, did not shape Canada into the country it is today.
Canada is seen as a bountiful democratic coutry, capable of providing it's natural resources to nations around the world for exploitation. Canadians like to believe that they take care of their own
citizens. Moreover, they believe in opening their borders to almost
every available foreign immigration department worldwide. If you
are a citizen in any other part of the world, say Japan or Lebanon,
and you are fairly wealthy, Canada welcomes you with open arms.
What does this say about Canada's history? Basically, that Canadians are greedy, adventurous people, who thrive on making the
almighty dollar, and that their history up until now, reveals that
Canadian governments in the past have ignored providing more
substantial information and government services to their aboriginal
societies. Meanwhile, what happens to the real issues on Canadian
soil? For one, Canada is now a country filled with immigrants who
also need to make their presence felt. Jobs, social relief agencies,
parliaments, and Canada's entire federal structure seems to be
overly involved in accomodating the immigrants' needs. All the
while aboriginal issues are left simmering on the back-burner.
When speaking of Canadian aboriginal people, it is important that one separates each group into it's own traditional and
cultural circle. In Canada there are three main groups included
under the title, aboriginal. They are status and non-status Indians
and the Metis, who are usually descendants of either French or
English European ancestry combined with one or another Indian
bloodlines.
All of the aformentioned aboriginal sub-groups in Canada
still maintain their own historical conflicts with the Canadian
political structure. To begin with, status Indians are seeking more
autonomy and the right to self-government. In 1985 and 1987, at the
First Ministers conferences held in Canada, both conferences ended
on a negative note. Reasons for this aboriginal setback resulted after
Canada's premiers could not define 'self-government'. After so
many decades of political negotiations, two of the four Indian bands
who were successful in their negotiations were from Alberta. The
Alexander Indian Reserve and the Northern Sawridge bands are
precedent-setting cases for other Canadian aborigines seeking autonomy. Basically, the right to self-government allows the
aboriginals(status Indians) to control their own affairs. This includes control over their own police force, health services, and

school boards, moreover they oversee substantial earnings deri':ed
from natural resources such as oil and gas and forestry. If the Indian
bands who have been successful in their negotiations, live up to
expectations, more Canadian aboriginal groups will follow their
examples.
Another aboriginal sub-group which has not ~n t~
successful in their political struggle has been the Metis. Their
primary difficulties arise from their exclusion in t~e treaty syste~
which was established in the 1800s for status Indians. The Metis
were considered as all other Canadians were, and did not earn extra
benefits from the Canadian government. There does exist, howe".'e~,
viable reasons why the Metis should be acknowledged as abonginal. Some historical Metis leaders, such as Riel and Dumont, did
include themselves in Canada's establishment. For their efforts to
gain Metisautonomy and the right to self-government, both lead~rs
were somewhat condemned. Riel was hung for treason, while
Dumont quietly faded into Canada's historical development. Indian affairs of Canada's governmental system does not take interest
in the Metis struggle. The Metis have established some major organizations to seek out their overall interests. Like the status
Indian, the Metis struggle has been a long drawn out affair. Up until
recently has the voice of the Metis been heard. Ra~dy Hardy, who
is Chief Of Federation of Metis settlements, negotiated and won a
major victory for Alberta's Metis in a twenty-on~ year old ~aw-~uit
against the Alberta provincial government. This was of histo~cal
importance since it is not only the first, as Alberta ~as the first
province in Canada to provide any land to the Metis. Such an
historical gain could not but help other Metis settleme~ts in achieving some form of self-identity. More and more Metis peop~e are
becoming involved in their national quest for autonomy. This fact
provides the Canadian government with several reasons why they
should take heed to all aboriginal concerns.
Procrastinating any longer will not help address the many
major issues at hand. Canada's gove~ent is not only f~ced with
pressure from status Indian and Metis groups, more outsid~ ~uropean folk are condemning Canada's stance towar~ abonginals.
Environmentalist groups across Canada have now listened to the
horrors expressed so long ago by aboriginal people about our land
abuses. Riel was praised for his efforts and dedication. to help t~e
Metis. Indian guides and hunters are praised for their efforts m
leading the first Europeans across Canada. Pow-wows, sweat-

124

125

Davey C. Maurice
lodges, and other aboriginal ceremonies are of particular interest to
anthropologists, sociologists, and ordinary people alike. It seems
that the Indian and Metis traditions have finally created enough
interest to gain popular support. Mistakes have been made in the
past. They will not erase themselves. Aboriginal peoples of Canada
have taken a stand and are trying desperately to achieve autonomy
of some sort. If history keeps repeating itself, Canada's government
will be hesitant to deal with matters, however, this has not been the
case. Many Indian bands and Metis settlements have been successful in their negotiations. This does not mean that all is well and
should be forgotten, it only serves to say that aboriginal grievances
are being dealt with and more positives are emerging for aboriginal
sake.

End

Rain Thoughts by Cecilia Luke
Rain
Unrelenting, descending, reflecting
Imposing on memories
Images wafting in serenity
Penetrating, Impressing, Dissolving
An intimate mist of gauze
Transparent petals stored in silence
Immersing, Cleansing, Reviving
A veil is lifted
A shimmering image in seclusion

Chris & Gary
Hunters
Stalking though the whispery grey dawn
Hugged in layers of clothing
Soft steps in moist moors
Frosted breath kissing morning mist
Dew dampened nostrils
Muggy voices in a muffle

126

127

Changing Song by Leona Lysons

CHANGING
SONG

Her hands were cold, and the plastic bags had grown heavy,
cutting into her fingers and cramping them. She coufd afford only
the two bags of groceries and even tfiat felt heavy.
She knew tfiere were four city blocks left before she could enter
her house and set the burden down. She decided to walk quickly to
end the trial as soon as J)OSSible.
She veered onto the left of the sidewalk to avoid a child
whizzing by on his bicycle. Her ba9. snagged on a fence and the
contents tumbled onto the ground. 'Shoof', her mind screamed.
She glared at the boy's receding back. He hadn't even seen what
he'd done.
She started tossing the spilled contents into the other shoppin$.
bag. Margarine, bologna, and peanut butter for school lunches fit
uneasily, crowded into the other package. When she picked up the
oranges, the twist tie slipped off, and tne oranges rolfed all around
her. She grit her teeth and grabbed the nearest fruit, reached back,
and threw it as hard she could. The shot was terrific and the lamp
post that was her target now had a smear of orange juice dripping
aown its' side. "There," she felt much better. She then chuckled at
her silly act and thought guiltily of the wasted orange. It was
important to keep a sense oI humour.
As if rewarding her for a good thought, a chickadee landed on
the fence. It watched her to see if she migbt offer it a morsel of food.
She looked at it, and smiled. She wondered if they had met in her
backyard where she fed birds wild bird seed and beef suet. Maybe
it was one of the chickadees who had become brave enough to land
on her hand and accept the suet from her open palm.
She thought of tne legend about why the cruckadee sings one
song in the summer, "Kee-chenna, Kee-chenna," and changes it to
"Chlck-a-dee-dee-dee," for the winter months. Compared-to Jays
and Magpies, it was so small and yet, it too survives the coldest
winters.Maybe its' survival had something to do with its ability to
change songs with the seasons, she thougnt.
Somehow the bird and the legend reminded her of herself, and
the changes she was going through. The season of marriage had
ended, and now the season of starting over as a single parent had
begun. Time to change her song, and to sing as bravely as the little
bira. To keep singing though times were hard.
As she gathered the last of the oranges, a man came out of
his house and offered her a plastic ba& ancfa ride home. She smiled
and thanked him for the ba& but aeclined his offer of the ride.
She would make out fine, thanks.

128
129

Warrior's Winter by Duane E. Marchand

Diptera by Duane E. Marchand and Columpa Bobb

Proud Warrior
The winter's fierce wind
Has taken its' toll
On your once handsome features
The numbing cold
Has scarred your face with deep lines
And gnarled your hands
So drawing back your bow
Is no longer possible
Your sunken cheeks and hollowed eyes
Reflect the hardships of many winters
Many long days and sleepless nights
Struggling, worrying
About your very survival
And the survival of your children
During those days when the winter's cold
Had stolen the lives of many young children
Your children had overcome those times
Although the bitter winter stallion
Has finally carried you away
Your blood still courses
Through our veins
Dear Father, proud warrior Father
We are who we are
Because of who you
Will Always be

I'm shakin' off the cold again
Shivers and shudders kni~ts in the gutters
Damn cold s gone riglit to my bones
Moans and ~ and chillm' bones
Eyes ain't even open yet
Burnt out eyes, bitchin sunrise
And the light's still ~ushin' through
Night blind and still outta yer mina
This bench ain't so comfortable no more
Too hard and cold for these bones old
Kin feel the boards pushin' through cavities
where teeth once stood
No more teeth just a bootleg sheath
Arm's ~one dead other side of the bench
Nerves asunder body s ablunder
Heavy dew this morning, shirt's soaked feet's froze
Every poor fool's got his soul sold cause nobody's bold when it
comes to the cold
I don't know haven't felt them in daze
Pigeon shit in my ear
Lookee here, there's no shit pit in a pigeon's ear
.
Well... got it easy today
Easy eatin's from sleazy beatin's
Emma's still snoozin' in her puke
It seeps and cree_ps even as she sleeps
Kfu smell it, it's bad, 1ike everyone I know
Like human sewer, humanities manure
Hafta move, hafta rise
Demise, despise, don't look at me with them beady eyes
Need more sun to melt the black ice
Stinking, rotting, heat sweltering vice, I accept you with
open arms isn't that nice
My mind's still freezin' but I ain't dead yet
Hesitation, procrastination I'm looking forward to your
destination
Tied with cement shackles I'm forced to move slow
Stop fightin' and frightin' your soul I'll enli~ten
I'm a aominant rock in a majestic sea
Hush, hush, you miserable lush!
I'm a dominant rock in a majestic sea!
Enough of this talk, let yourself cry, lay yourself down
Let yourself die
In your ocean of blood I kin stand, I kin laugh
I kin live

130

131

Duane E. Marchand

Hey... Mr. Music Man

Concrete City by Tracey Bonneau

In the chill of the night
The lonely sound of a saxophone
Echoes through the alleys and streets
Passersby offer coins in sympathy
Not in apfreciation of talent
Or skillfu mastery of the instrument
This is not the big time
The only limeligfit to bask in
Is the cold fluorescents
Of the Government Liquor Store
On East Hastings Street
I see a smile in your eyes
When a request was asked of you
And you gfadly obliged by playing the blues
With closed eyes
You poured every ounce of energy: into your music
Your music was alive, your music had soul
And for that fleeting moment
You weren't that cold and lonely black man
In ragged clothes and dusty hat
I saw you with shiny shoes
Fancy clothes and a brand new hat
And those cold fluorescents
Grew bright and warm,
And beads of sweat formed on your brow
As you took your place on centre stage
I heard the crowd go wild in appreciation
For someone that everyone wanted to be
I saw you too for who you are really are
The Music Man
As the last notes faded
Into the thick wintry air
And your last patron faded into the crowd
I watched as you counted the change
"Hey, Mr. Music Man," I said,
"I have no money to offer you, but,
Please play that song for me, okay."
And there it was again
The warm smiling eyes
Sparkling in the cold fluorescent lights
Of the Goverment Liquor Store
On East Hastings
And in the chilfof the night
The lonely sound of a saxophone
Echoes through the alleys and streets
The sounds oI the Music Man.

wet smog rises into skyline
the working day starts
trails of pushy umbrella people
surrounded by rush traffic
a glitzy high heel
steps on the soiled
trenchcoat (of a nearby street beggar)
his harmonica tune
floats in the air
business suited men
flock into tall
stonefaced monster buildings
plastic cheese
and instant coffee giants
dollar signs embedded
into their pupils
the lingering harmonica note
hangs in the damp air
a single echo
of sanity
a solitary reminder
of who the real victims
of the concrete city are

133
132

Tracey Bonneau

Tracey Bonneau

Stranded On An Island

Doorway

on the islands edge
a figure shadows
the darkness
she smells hi:rri
hunger driven she tastes
and brown skin melts
into clear beads
that roll off skin
become wheels of lust
between two bodies
screaming into a place
rarely felt
he crumbles then
like sand
unto the island
she tries to pick up pieces of him
but the grains sift through her fingers
and her tears wash
whats left away

clouded eyes squint
toward day
lightness
higher
higher the mind races
playing its games
smaller
smaller the tunnel becomes
until
light
becomes darkness
and the walls squeeze
a tiny pool of light
seeps through a crack
in the rigid door
set me free
let that light shine
on my eyes
so they can be clear
of clouds

134

135

Garry Gottfriedson

\!.,
!i1,

Crystal Globe
Bureaucrats by Garry Gottfriedson
Bureaucrats sit neatly hunched behind plush marble desk tops
clustered with paper and pictures and day old carnations
with knuckle white fingers tightly clasped around paperrnates
skidding and scraping across someone's future
AND
WHEN
SOMEONE
goes to see them quiet and concerned about their future
they stare like a crazy cartoon cat would
with a shiny civilized smile and licking their lips and wagging their
hands
feeling important just before striking
AND
WHEN
THEY
STRIKE
they stand fully exposed in their outdated english garb
smelling like they just arrived from france japan or india;
they breathe wildly if questioned,
as if they are ready to choke.
DON'T
STAND
TOO CLOSE
because their mouthwash lingers like raw fish and wine
Those bureaucrats are a weird bunch
huffing and puffing and chasing away
anyone who dares to visit them.

We live in a crystal globe
glittering, revo1ving, adaP-ting, even though
it is not meant to lack trulh
someone in the beginning instructed not to forget
in our lifetime
but somewhere sometime parts of it were forgotten
then passed on to those willing to listen .
.
fractions remained unmoved 6y the motion of time; ak
unbounding power which tested those willing to spe
in this universe which never lies
The fra~ented parts passing
like an eclipse
where there is no turning back
where there is no reversing
and in that minute moment
the P.OWer of the sun is shielded
blinaed by a creeping transparent moon:
It only tal and it is inevitable to stop.
We live in a crystal glo'l?e .
.
..
and go on forever multipl)'1?g with rE;P.(!tition; . d thi
somehow there is a myslical 6eauty hiaden behin
s
somehow none of it makes sense until we remember the truth
in its simplest form;
this is caused in the accuracy of memory
and it is then
it becomes all too clear, awesome, yet fearful,
something like feeling the penetrating warmth of the sun
just before the eclipse, also
.
coming to know its coldness before the point
of fading into cold shadows:
. .
. .
The eclipse is re~ated an~ the void is multiplied
with different logic each time,
.
but, those things are distinct with colors, textures, and feelings
manifested over and over and over
Portions of truth remain
even, pure, and without limit!'ltions.
like tne process of water turning to ice
and ice reverting back to water.
We live in a crystal globe
.
.
gentle warm and with the ability to melt those things which freeze
All of ~s are born and die soon
with questions unabled to be answered;
this does not stop
.
.
and there are no words to descnbe this;
not in color to be seen
not in sound to be heard
not in any aroma
none in these earthly textures.
It is a beauty deeply hidden
within this crystal globe
137

136

Downtown Main Drag by Randy Fred
Hookers by night
Witnesses by day
On guard for thee
Downtown,maindrag
All day, all night
somebody's looking out
looking out for your cash
For your time
For what you got
Giving love
Takinglove
Wanting love
Hookers by night
Witnesses by day
Something to sell
Something to buy
Downtown, main drag
Hey there's the gal
Saw her downtown, main drag
Early this morning
Handing out some paper
Telling me the times a-coming
Now she's back
On the same drag
Telling me
Few bucks, my main man
Make you happy all night long
Ah, it's good to know
Somebody's looking out
Looking out for
Downtown, main drag
Hookers by night
Witnesses by day

138

Sweet Romance Junkie by Alvin Manitopyes
Your graceful moves
I love to be in love and ...
Concentrates and captivates
It is with no fear
My whole senses
That I say ''l Love you"
lam...
Say what?
Your crazy fool.
You heard it, you read it
And I will not whisper or scream
Those three little words
Unless someone really moves me
You did - so now you know
You don't have to say it back
Maybe you need to hear it
Brag about it
Nurture it
Kill it..No don't!
Because it is there
In its present tense
So when I declare
My affection for you
I mean it...even if..•,
I don't what it means
But it does not mean
long term commitment
It does not mean
foolish promises
It does not mean
being a prisoner of love
nor a temporary obsession
It does mean constancy and virtue
It does mean admiration
It is just. ..
Just a purring passion
That I feel. ..for you ...
For how strongly?
Your beauty and presence
Works on my heart
I can't help it
Your sweet kisses
Your cheerful smile
139

Indian Lad In City by Eileen Burnett
I slowly trudge down
Bustling main street
Dodging fleet youngsters
On skateboards. Not recognizing
A soul that I meet

The Disempowerment of First North American
Native Peoples
And Empowerment Through Their Writing

For I'm seeing snow trails
Through shadowy spruce
Watching bare underbrush
For signs that bull moose
Passed this way;
Feeling brisk wind
Veering to north
Snowshoes crunching.....

Jeannette Armstrong
Paper prepared for ·
Saskatchewan Writer's Guild

'Scuse me lady,
I'll help you pick up your parcels

1990 Annual Conference
PANEL DISCUSSION:
"EMPOWERING ABORIGINAL WRITERS"

140

141

Jeannette C. Annstrong

Jeannette C. Annstrong
In order to address the specifics of Native people's writing
and empowerment, I must first present my view on the disempowerment of first North American Nations.
Without recounting various historical versions of how it
happened, I would like to refer only to what happened here.
Indigenous peoples in North America were rendered
powerless and subjugated to totalitarian domination by foreign
peoples after, they were welcomed as guests and their numbers
~ere allowed to grow to the point of domination through aggress10n.
On°: total subj~ve control was achieved over my peoples
through vanous coercive measures and the direct removal of
pol~tical, social and religious freedoms accomplished, the colonization process began.
. In N~rth America this has been to systemically enforce
mamfest destiny or the so-called "White Man's burden" to civilize.
In the 498 years of contact in The Americas, the thrust of this
bloody sword has been to hack out the spirit of all the beautiful
cultures encountered, leaving in its' wake a death toll unrivalled in
recorded history. This is what happened and what continues to
happen.
There is no word other than totalitarianism which adequately describes the methods used to achieve the condition of my
people today. Our people were not given choices. Our children,
for generations, were seized from our communities and homes
~d placed in indoctrination camps until our language, our relig10ns, our customs, our values and our societal structures almost
disappeared. This was the residential school experience.
. Arising out of the seige conditions of this nightmare time,
what IS commonly referred to as the "social problems" of Native
peoples emerged. Homes and communities, without children had
nothing to work for, or live for. Children returned to communities
and fa~lie~ as adults, without the necessary skills for parenting,
for Native hfe style or self-sufficiency on their land base, deteriorated into despair. With the loss of cohesive cultural relevance
with their own peoples and a distorted view of the non-native
culture from the clergy who ran the residential schools, an almost
t?tal disori~ntation and loss of identity occurred. The disintegration of farmly and community and nation was inevitable, originating with the individual's internalized pain. Increasing death statistics from suicide, violence, alcohol and drug abuse and other
142

!t
t

poverty centred physical diseases, c~n leave no doubt about the
question of totalitarianism and genoode.
You writers from the dominating culture have the freedom of imagination. You keep reminding us of this. Is there anyone here who dares to imagine what those children suffered at the
hands of their so called "guardians" in those schools. You are
writers, imagine it on yourselves and your children. Imagine you
and your children and imagine how they would be treated by
those who abhorred and detested you, all, as savages without any
rights.
Imagine at what cost to you psychologically, to acquiesce
and attempt to speak, dress, eat and worship, like your oppressors,
simply out of a need to be treated humanly. Imagine attempting to
assimilate so that your children will not suffer what you have, and
· imagine finding that assimilationist measures are not meant to
include you but to destroy all remnants of your culture. Imagine
finding that even when you emulate every cul~ral proc:s~ from
customs to values you are still excluded, despised and ndiculed
because you are Native.
Imagine finding out that the dominating culture will not
tolerate any real cultural participation and that cultural supre~cy
forms the basis of the government process and that systermc racism is a tool to maintain their kind of totalitarianism. And all the
while, imagine that this is presented under the guise_ of. "~ual
rights" and under the banner of banishing bigotry on an mdividual
basis through law.
Imagine yourselves in this condition and imagine the writer
of that dominating culture berating you for speaking out about appropriation of cultural voice and using the words "freedom of
speech" to condone further systemic violence, in the form of entertainment literature about your culture and your values and all the
while, yourself being disempowered and rendered voiceless through
such "freedom's".
Imagine how you as writers from the dominant societr
might tum over some of the rocks in your own garden_ fo~ examination. Imagine in your literature courageously questiomng and
examining the values that allows the dehumanizing of peo~les
through domination and the dispai::sionate ~ture ~f_the_racISm
inherent in perpetuating such practises. Imagine wn~? m h?nesty, free of the romantic bias about the courageous p10n~~g
spirit" of colonialist practise and imperialist process. Imagine m143

Jeannette C. Annstrong
terpreting for us your own peoples thinking toward us, instead of
interpreting for us, our thinking, our lives and our stories. We
wish to know, and you need to understand, why it is that you want
to own our stories, our art, our beautiful crafts, our ceremonies,but
you do not appreciate or wish to recognize that these things of
beauty arise out of the beauty of our people.
Imagine these realities on yourselves in honesty and let me
know how you imagine that you might approach empowerment of
yourselves in such a situation. Better yet, do not dare speak to me
of "Freedom Of Voice", "Equal Rights", "Democracy", or "Human
Rights" until t~ totalitarianistic approach has been changed by
rourselves as wnters and shapers of philosophical direction. Imagine a world where domination is not possible because all cultures
are valued.
To the Native writers here, my words are meant as
empowerment to you. In my quest for empowerment of my people
through writing, there are two things of which I must steadfastly
remind myself.
. The first is that the reality I see is the reality for the majority
of Native people and that although severe and sometimes irreparable damage has been wrought, healing can take place through
cultural affirmation. I have found immense strength and beauty in
my people.
The dispelling of lies and the telling of what really happened until everyone, including our own people understands that
this condition did not happen through choice or some cultural
defect on our part, is important. Equally important is the affirmation of the true beauty of our people whose fundamental cooperative values resonated pacifism and predisposed our cultures
as vulnerable to the reprehensible value systems which promote
domination and aggression.
The second thing I must remind myself of, is that the
dominating culture's reality is that it seeks to affirm itself continuously and must be taught that numbers are not the basis of democracy,
people are, each one being important. It must be pushed, in Canada, to understand and accept that this country is multi-racial and
multi-cultural now, and the meaning of that. I must remind myself
constantly of the complacency that makes these conditions possible, and that if I am to bridge into that complacency that I will be
met with hostility from the majority, but, that those whose thoughts
I have provoked, may become our greatest allies in speaking to

Jeannette C. Armstrong
their own. It is this promotion of an ideal which will produce the
courage to shake-off centuries of imperialist tho~ght_ and make
possible the relearning of cooperation and shanng, m place of
domination.
.
Our task as Native writers is twofold. To examme th~ past
and culturally affirm toward a new vision for all our people m the
future, arising out of the powerful and positiv~ support structures
that are inherent in the principles of co-operation.
We, as Native people, through continu~ly resisting_cultural
imperialism and seeking means toward_ teaching c°:'perative relationships, provide an integral mechamsm for solutions currently
needed in this country.
. .
We must see ourselves as undefeatably pro-active ma
positive sense and realize that negative activism actually serves
the purpose of the cultural imperialism practised on o~r people.
Lies need clarification, truth needs to be stated and r~s~s!ance to
oppression needs to be stated, without fu~t~ering division and
participation in the same racist measures. This is the challen~e ~hat
we rise too. Do not make the commonly made error that it is a
people that we abhor, be clear that it is systems and proce~sors
which we must attack. Be clear that change to those systems will be
promoted by people who can perceive intelligent and non-threatening alternatives. Understand that these altern~tives will be presented only through discourse and dialogue flowmg outward from
us for now because we are the stakeholders. We need the system
to'change. Those in the system can and will rem:i~n complace~t
until moved to think, and to understand how critical, cha~g~ is
needed at this time for us all. Many already know and are willmg
to listen.
.
The responsibility of the Native wri~er is tre~endous m
light of these times in which world over, solutions ~r~ bei_ng sought
to address the failed assimilationist measures originating o~t _of
conquest, oppression and exploitation, whether under th~ socr~ist
or capitalist banner. We as writers can show how for Lith~aman
independence and support for South African Black _e_quality ~
comes farcical in the glare of the Constitutional position to F~rst
Nations here in Canada, who seek nothing more than co-operative
sovereign relationships guaranteed in the principles of treaty making. No one will desire or choose to hear these truths unless they
are voiced clearly to people who have no way to know that there
are good alternatives and that instead of losing control we can all

144
145

Jeannette C. Annstrong
grow powerful together.
Finally' I believe m
· the basic
· goodness of the ma'ority f
Itreltrix_on the common human desire to be guilt ~ee an~
0
,
umph, towards attainme t f
full
.
wonderful think" be"
n
our
potential as
expression'of bea~~- mgs at the forward edge of the Creator's

f:/if~

°

~~==i:~;:.in.!:;::::;:,~,=;

kpplectisea::
ra
, are natural and survival driven mechan.15
. ,
transcend violence and a
. 1
ms which
see the destructive paths that
ha ve led us to this time inggress1on.
h" t
h
.
.
ril
and
k
ha
is
ory,
w
en all hfe on this planet is in
pe
now t t there must be ha
be
.
principles of co-operation ar;;-;cr c nge. I heve that the
intent of the Creator and therefore s:;ll~u~~ the plan and the
Thank You.

GATHERINGS: AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES

1. Cody Williams

Ten year old Cody Williams is of Chilcotin-Shuswap Native ancestry. A
proud Indian, he is a Native Traditional Dancer.
2. Tracey Bonneau
Tracey Bonneau is an Okanagan Native currently residing in Vancouver.
Her life's ambition is to become a national television news reporter.

3. Greg Young-Ing
Currently studying law in Vancouver, Greg is originally from Manitoba. He
continues to enjoy writing in his spare time.
4. Colleen Seymour
Employed as an Instructor at the Secwepemc Cultural Education Center
inI Program. Of Shuswap Native ancestry, Colleen enjoys hard, honest work.

5. Tim Michel
This is Tim's first piece of poetry. He is currently enjoying his time as a
travelling instructor on Computer Programs. nm is of Shuswap ancestry.
6. Garry Gottfriedson
Of Shuswap ancestry, this is a second for a publication of Garry's writings.
Currently teaching at the Secwepemc Cultural Education Centre in
Kamloops, Garry plans to attend the En'owkin International School of
Writing this fall.

7. Richard Armstrong
A member of the Pen ticton Indian Band of the Okanagan Indian Nation
this is Richard's first published works. Richard enjoys working withAudioVisual programs.
8. Conrad George
Conrad Albert George is an Okanagan of the Penticton Indian Band. Conrad
is a student at the En'owkin International School of Writing.
9. Redhand
Assiniboine from Fort Belknap Montana, Redhand considers himself a
dreamer and a writer. United Federation of Tribes, one race, one voice, one
Nation - all red.
10. Duane Marchand
Duane is of Okanagan Native ancestry from the Okanagan Indian Band
near Vernon. These are his first published works of poetic material.
11. Joseph Bruchac
JoeBruchac'snativeancestryisAbenaki. Co-authorof'KeepersoftheEarth'
his poems and stories have been widely published and he has edited a
number of anthologies of Native Writing.
146
147

12. Donna K. Goodleaf
?ne of the few :-1stern North American Indians to submit writings, Donna
is from the Kamen Kehaka (Mohawk) Nation. She is presently enrolled in
the Department of Education at the University of Massachusetts.
13. T. Mitchel Staats
T. Mi~el's writings truly come from inside, where spirituality is strong.
In wntlng for pleasure he shows survival. Of Mohawk ancestry this is
one of his first works.
'

14. Nana
Nana, a Blackfoot potter and scholar, is from Browning,
Montana. He enjoys using the gifts of life to help others.

23. Sheila Dick
Sheila is a Shuswap of the Canim Lake Band. A mother of three, she has been
involved in Native Indian Education for the last ten years. She received her
Bachelor of Education degree in 1986.

24. Davey C. Maurice
Of Metis ancestry, Davey was born in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. Proud to
be Native through spiritual and traditional ways, Davey also enjoys sports.
He plans on majoring in Sociology at the University of Regina.
25. Kerrie Otarnley
Of Katzie, Jewish and English ancestry, Kerrie writes to heal hersell and to
find redemption for past struggles her grandma and mom have experienced.

15. Kateri Damm
An established writer of the Cape Crocker Reserve in Ontario Kateri
resides in Ottawa. Her works have appeared in The Magazine ~d Seventh
Generation.

26. Deb Cement
Of Cree ancestry, this is Deb's first published works. Deb is currently living
on Vancouver Island and pursuing a university degree.

16. Anna Lee Walters
A writer of short stories, Anna has made her home in Tsaile, Arizona. An
intense feeling of Native spirituality underlies her writings.

27. Karen Coutlee
Okanagan Upper Nicola Band. First published writings. Fine Arts at Cariboo College in Kamloops. She pursues writing from deep feelings.

17. Cecelia Luke
A member of theOkanaganNation, Cecelia makes her home in Creston, B.C.
She uses themes of love, color and emotions to bring out her words for a
deep respect for nature.

28. Forrest A. Funmaker
A Hochunk (Winnebago from Wisconsin), Forrest has enjoyed great success
attheEn'owkinlntemationalSchoolofWritlng.Heispresentlyworkingon
a stand-up corned y routine.

18. Armand Garnet Ruffo
An Objiway, Armand is from Northern Ontario. A graduate of the Writing
Program at the Banff Center School of Fine Arts. He holds an Honors
Degree in English Literature from the University of Ottawa. His poetry
has recently appeared in Seventh Generation: Contemporary Native
Writing.

29. Don Wind
Of the Okanagan Indian Nation, this is Don Wind's first published works.
His interests are reading, cycling, drawing and writing at leisure.

19. Lee Maracle
Lee ~s of Cree a~d West C~st Indian Ancestry. Currently residing in
Sardis, B.C. She is author of 'Bobbi Lee", "I Am Woman", and is one of the
editors of "Telling It and Sojoumeris Truth and Other Stories".

20. Annharte

~?1 ~ Win~peg, Annharte is of Saulteaux and Irish heritage. Currenti y
• livmg m Regma, she partakes in writings, readings and visits throughout
the Native community.

30. Arnie Louie
Is a member of the Inkameep Band in Oliver, B.C. He is a student of the
En'owkin International School of writing. This is his first published work.
31. Daniel David Moses

.
.
From the Six Nations lands in Southern Ontano, his works include
poems and plays.

32. Alice Lee
.
A writer of short fiction and woman's issues, she has prerviously
published 'Love Medicine' and 'Old Woman Alone'.
33. Maria Baptiste
.
.
Maria is a member of the Okanagan Tribe and is plannmg to wnte a book
on the Okanagan people.

21. Mary Ann Gerard
Mary Ann is from Missoula, Montana. The two selections appearing in this
journal have previously been published.
22. L. Cheryl Blood
L. Cheryl Blood is of the Blood Tribe of Southern Alberta. This is her first
published works.
149
148

34. Shirle}" Eagle Tailfeathers
Shirfey enjoys writing at her leisure.
35. Myrtle R. Johnson
·
Of the Shuswap Nation, Myrtle enjoys writing poetry in her home at
Alkali Lake
36. Art Napoleon
From the Salmon Arm, B.C. area. Art enjoys the outdoors and storywriting.
37. Joann Thom
This is Joann's first published works.
38. Leah E. Messer
A welcome addition tp this journal
39. Eriel Deranger
Eriel's first published works. Congratulations!
40. Margaret Warbrick
Of the Shuswap Reserve near lnvermere Margaret enjoys writing stories
and poetry
41. Mary Lou C. Debassige
From Three Fires Society on Manitoulin Island, Ontario, This is Mary
Lou's sixth published works.
42. Andy P. Nieman
From the Yukon, this is Andy's first published works.
43. Glen James
Of Nespelem Washington, Glen enjoys writing on the culture activities of
his traditions.
44. Gerald Etienne
A writer of poetry relating to friendship and family.
45. Leona Lysons
Of the Shuswap Nation, Leona enjoys writing poetry and will return to
classes this falf at En'owkin's International Scliool of Writing.
46. Randy Fred
Founder of Theytus Books Ltd. Randy now resides in the Nanaimo, B.C.
area.
47. Alvin Manitopyes .
Currently living in Calgary, Alberta, Alvin writes poetry for leisure.
48. Eileen Burnett
Eileen enjoys writing of nature and life at her leisure.
49. Jeannette C. Armstrong
A well known and gifted writer., Jeannette continues to involve herself
in writing about her traditions and culture through contemporary events

150

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