Sharron Proulx

—_——_\“—
the elder’s gone when I’'m finished. he’s left without his bag. I'm
concerned about that and I close the bag and start to carry it away
and to look for him.

a young man—husky, rough—blocks my way with the whole front
of his body. I say in a strong voice to leave me alone I am a metis
woman. he says he’sa white man from some european country and
he puts a knife to my stomach and says he’ll slice me in half if I
move. I don’t move.

he keeps pushing at me with his body and his black clothes and I
ask him what he wants but he just grunts and pushes at me. grunts
and pushes at me.

across the way are three native women with a child and the women
are weeping with despair. the child has left them and gone down a
hill to die. the women call to me they want me to help them. I break
away from the man and run past the women and down the hill.
they’re afraid to go down there because it’s death down there and
they’re not ready for death. I’m able to reach the child and carry
her back up the hill. she’s limp in my arms but she is moulded,
moulds into me. and when I reach the top of the hill and the
women, we all know that I’ve saved the child and that the child is
in me. is me.

I hear some of my metis grandmothers when they talk to me now.
one granny in particular. she says it’s about time I started to hear
her. her voice comes up from below smooth and warm. honey-soft.
she’s trying to tell me something. when I tumn to look, she’s gone.
she starts to wear a little red knitted hat so I can see her. she’s real-
ly very unromantic-looking. she’s short and plump and she has no
teeth. she laughs a lot and she’s funny. I wanted to tell a funny
Story. some people tell me I have a good sense of humour. I think
it’s true too because lots of times when I say something people
break out laughing.

a woman recently told me a funny story. she’s metis, on welfare,
and a single mom with four pre-school-aged kids. she asked me if

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