Gatherings Volume 14
The En' owkin Journal of
First North American Peoples

En'ow kin Reunion

Fall 2003

Edited by
Karen W. Olson

Theytus Books Ltd.
Penticton, BC

Gatherings
The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples Volume 14
2003
Copyright© for the authors
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data
Main entry under title:

Gatherings
Volume 14

Gatherings

Annual.
ISSN 1180-0666
ISBN 1-894778-12 X (v. 14)

En'owkin Reunion

1. Canadian literature (English)--Indian authors--Periodicals.* 2.
Canadian literature (English)--Periodicals.* 3. American literature--Indian
authors-- Periodicals. 4. American literature--Periodicals. I. En'owkin
International School of Writing. II. En' ow kin Centre.
PS8235.16G35
C810.8'0897
CS91-031483-7
PR9194.5.15G35

Editorial Committee: Jeannette Armstrong and Karen W. Olson
Cover Painting: "Return to the River" by Lee Claremont
Layout and Design: Leanne Flett Kruger
Proofing: Regina 'Chick' Gabriel and Tara Jack

Please send submissions and letters to
Gatherings,
En'owkin Centre, R.R.#2, Site 50, Comp. 8
Penticton, BC
V2A 6J7, Canada.
Previously published works are not considered.

The publisher acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the
Department of Canadian Heritage and the British Columbia Arts Council in
publication of this book.
BRITISH
•

COLUMBIA
ARTS COUNCIL

Canada

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Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Section 3 - Family Gathering

First Words
Karen W. Olson
Jeannette Armstong
Maurice Kenny

Editor's Note I 9
Gathering Berries and Words / 10
Introduction: Gatherings/ 12

Section 1 - Splashes From Paddle's Tip
Wil George
Crystal Lee Clark
Richard Van Camp
Jeannette Armstrong
Lome Simon
Trevor Cameron
Trevor Cameron
Joe Kruger
Joe Kruger
Joe Kruger
Graham Scott Proulx
Margaret Orr
Margaret Orr
Robyn Kruger

Canoe I 15
i am from/ 17
Kissing Day / 19
Remembering Lome Simon/ 21
Night/ 22
wild gorgeous beast / 26
Reunion/ 28
Word From Our Sponsor/ 35
That Shiny Little Orange And Yellow Fish/ 36
My Roots In Retrospect and Metaphor/ 37
Ignorance and Indians / 39
Fort George Island / 44
Alone I 45
Indian Princess: Who I am / 46

Section 2 The Grandmothers are Dancing in my Hair
Sharron Proulx
Sharron Proulx
Richard Van Camp
Krystal Cook
Krystal Cook
Krystal Cook
Margaret Orr
Margaret Orr
Brent Peacock-Cohen
Brent Peacock-Cohen
Karen W. Olson
Fred Roberds
Fred Roberds

time holds itself around the middle and laughs / 48
they came on the voice of fire / 49
Waiting/ 52
Birth/ 53
Energy I 55
The Grandmothers are Dancing in my Hair/ 57
Tree Dance I 58
Contours I 60
Essentialized Blindness / 64
Lingering Question / 65
Red Willow Baskets / 67
Silent Cries at Lullabies/ 68
Fes ti val of the Dead / 69

Joy Kogawa
Armand Gamet Ruffo
Dennis Saddleman
Barbara Helen Hill
Wil George
Wil George
Wil George
Leanne Flett Kruger
Sharron Proulx
Dawn Russell
Tracey Jack
Brent Peacock-Cohen
Rasunah Marsden
Rasunah Marsden
Rasunah Marsden
Brenda Prince
Gordon Bird

Revised Its 'ka/ 71
Old House / 78
Old Missus En'owkin / 79
En'owkin Centre: My Days in Nerd Land/ 85
En'owkin / 89
Raven's Take on the Okanagan / 90
Community I 91
Reunite/ 92
Caught in Fear / 96
Quarter Indian / 99
Spring Songs, Summer Memories / 103
Home Drum Beat / 104
Grandmother Stories I I 05
Eagle Feather Song / 108
Testimony: Grandma / 110
Grand Entry I 112
In This World/ 120

Section 4 - Rushing Water
Hartmut Lutz
Jeannette Armstrong
Vera Wabegijig
Lillian Sam
Suzi Bekkattla
Gordon Bird
Gordon Bird
Gordon Bird
Nikki Maier
Karen W. 0 Ison •
Drew Hayden Taylor
Drew Hayden Taylor
Gunargie O'Sullivan
Sherida Crane
Barb Fraser
Barb Fraser
ShoShona Kish

Excerpt from True Confession Article/ 122
Water is SiWlkw / 126
we come from a place of spirits / 128
Tribute to Natives Who Died in 1918 / 132
Joan, Did You My Postcard from Mexico? I 133
Paddle my Canoe I 134
This - myself/ 135
Four Invisible Circles/ 136
What is Writing but the Wild Horses of Your
Thoughts?/ 138
The Ninety Dollar Surrender/ 139
Dry Lips Oughta Move To America / 143
Recreational Cultural Appropriation / 14 7
Everybody's Lookin' for Sammy/ 150
Too Wicked / 151
Blues/ 157
Hell No/ 161
Window/ 164

"{

Table of Contents

Section 5 - Dramatic Writings
Armand Gamet Ruffo
Krystal Cook

A Windigo Tale / 166
Let Me Outta Here / 169

Section 6 - Images
Artists:
Lee Claremont
Margaret Orr
Jennifer Petahtegoose
Jacqueline Wachell
William Home

172-175
176-178
179-181
182
183

Photo Gallery

184-187

Biographies / 188

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Karen. W Olson

Editor's Note:

First Words

The En'owkin Centre is one of Canada's foremost Indigenous Arts
schools. Nestled in BC's Okanagan valley, the school offers a
Certificate in Foundations in Indigenous Fine Arts through the
University of Victoria, Okanagan Adult Language Immersion, College
Readiness, Indigenous Political Development and Leadership, and the
National Aboriginal Professional Artist Training program. Since 1985,
when post-secondary classes began, over 500 students have come to
learn and share knowledge here. Gatherings was first published in
1990 and remains an important element in First Nation literary arts.
This edition is a reunion issue featuring those students, instructors and
mentors who have graced our circle of learning with their creative
talents.
The En'owkin Centre holds a singular place in my heart for it was
here, from 1997 to 1999, that I found the trail that led to a pool of
creativity that lay resting and waiting within. As a former journalist in
mass media I had been trained to repress creative urges and remain
focused on the who, what, where, when, why and how of a story ... dry
reportage. Then the pool began to overflow, it began to leak, and
droplets of creative writing emerged. Today, I cannot imagine a day
without writing something creative, even if it is only a silly note to my
daughter. Therefore, when asked to be the editor of a Gatherings that
would reunite the En'owkin family, I felt truly honored.
Former and present instructors, mentors and students of the
En'owkin Centre (our extended family) were invited to come together
on the pages of a special issue of Gatherings. Although our family has
taken paths which led them to far places, we found many. Richard Van
Camp, Joy Kogawa, Armand Gamet Ruffo, Drew Hayden Taylor,
William George, Rasunah Marsden, Krystal Cook and others sent
writing which reflects upon their time in the Okanagan valley or
allows a glance into their present state of creative being. To our family
members we were unable to find, we miss you and hope to hear from
you soon.
When a family comes together there is joy and laughter, tears and
sorrow, stories and tall tales, hugs and kisses, and happiness in making
their circle strong once more. You, dear Reader, will find all that and
much more in these pages. Enjoy.
9

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Jeannette C. Armstrong

Gathering Berries and Words
The idea of creating an annual journal/collection of new writing by
First North American Peoples came out of a discussion between Lee
Maracle, Mini Freeman, Joy Harjo, Margo Kane and myself in the
initial formation of the En'owkin School of Writing as a program
during the Moon of Ripe Siya' (Saskatoon Berries) June 1990. I
remember that day. Joy, Mini, Margo and I gathered at En'owkin
Centre's Brunswick Street site to talk about the school and how the
perspectives and materials in the writing courses must be founded on
the most current writing. During the discussion, my mother and older
sisters arrived to let me know they were on their way to pick berries,
and asked, "Why can't you continue the discussion while you are
picking berries?" Margo, Joy and Mini agreed immediately and we set
out in a car following them, leaving a note for Lee to catch up when
she arrived. Lee did catch up later and we had a great time picking
berries and talk, talk, talking about the Writing School program. There
is something wonderful and juicy about picking berries with women
which speaks of fertility and voluptuous abundance and the warm sun
and survival and renewal; it spoke to us of the rightness of what we
were trying to put in place. I think we were listened to that day and
were given the permission and the help to sustain this work.
The idea of creating a yearly journal of new writing flowed out of
that discussion, and continued over the next three days of visiting at
the En'owkin Centre and at my house for a family gathering.
Someone said, "We need a gathering of writing, every year."
Someone else said, "Just like the old time gatherings every year."
Someone else said, "Yeah, the campout ones in which people who live
a long ways apart, exchange stories and get caught up on anything
new." Someone else added, "We could call it gatherings or something
like that." I admit that I can't remember who said exactly what and
when and that is probably good because the whole idea is wrapped up
in that wonderful time with those great women. It belongs to all of us.
It is our Gatherings.
The first volume, which Lee and I edited, came out in the fall of
1990 after a memorable hot summer at OKA. We are indebted to the
Canada Council of the Arts for supporting the publication of the first
volumes. Since then, I have looked forward each year to its publica10

Jeannette C. Armstrong

tion with such anticipation. When I read it, it is like sitting at a
gathering of our people from across Turtle Island. I am looking
forward to this reunion volume. It feeds and nurtures the hunger I have
to hear the stories of our people. I hope we will continue to have
Gatherings for a long time to come.
Jeannette C. Armstrong.
Chokecherry Moon, 2003

11

Maurice Kenny
Maurice Kenny

Gatherings
Over time, most literary magazines last less than two years. One of the
possible reasons for their demise might well be that they are either
theme magazines or, are supported by government or private donor
finances. When war has ended perhaps there is no need for a magazine
devoted to war or whatever other theme. Yet, if a writer should look
into the small press publishers and literary magazines they would find
countless magazines devoted to themes.
The great beauty and wonder concerning Gatherings is the quality
of the work which has been the cause for its longevity, even though it
is basically a theme magazine. Few publications dealing with Native
American (First Person) themes seem to survive time. Difficult to
understand why, as Native Peoples are definitely here to stay and
continue to make an enormous contribution to the present and the
future. Gatherings has done and continues to do exactly that contribute. It is known for publishing over many active years a very
large number of recognized writers who hail from both Canada and the
United States (there is no Creative border). Beth Cuthand, Richard
Greene, Raven Hail, Jeannette Armstrong, Lee Maracle, Drew Taylor,
Lome Simon, Joy Harjo, Peter Blue Cloud, Joseph Bruchac and
Kimberly Blazer have been published in the pages, along with many
other known and emerging writers.
It is an established fact that the En'owkin Centre was the dream
miracle of Jeannette Armstrong, a thoroughly committed teacher and
writer of no small international importance. With the support of her
people and the aid of Don Fiddler, this incredible vision has given a
strong foundation to many Native writers who would turn to the
Centre for clarity, confidence, method, and sustenance which all
Creative people need to survive and produce whatever arts may come
from their rich imagination.
In the Monashee range of the eastern Cascades slopes rising from
the shores of Skaha Lake's slate grey waters where coyote winds howl
across the Okanagan valley, the En'owkin Centre was first established
to offer any and all Native peoples a place to invent a new perspective
on creativity, whatever their age or gender. A validation of life, a
dream miracle, a confirmation through dedication and importance was
given along with whatever certificate granted at the end of study.
12

Out of this original miracle rose another miracle. Theytus Books
Ltd. brought forth a literary magazine of substantial, beautiful and
meaningful Native writing. Gatherings, under the editorship of Greg
Young-Ing, Florene Belmore (a former student at the Centre), Kateri
Akiwenzie-Damm, Jeannette Armstrong and others, is a truly impressive ?ublication which has crossed the known world with its beauty
and import. From 1990 to present day, this magazine continues to
survive literary winds and produces some of the most important literature in the known world. We honor the editors and their visions. We
wish it continued success and positive support to emerging writers and
students of Native literatures.
The original vision holds, deepens, widens and circles the lives
and imaginations of many Native peoples who may well have been
ignored by other quarters of the literary world. Native literature is
nothing new. Storytelling, poems and song have flourished since the
beginning. We graciously thank the dreamers for their dreams.
Maurice Kenny
In the Adirondack Mountains

13

Wit George

Canoe
go
blood drop rain drop tear drop
hhoo hhoo hhoo
Cedar stands strong and honorable
for hundreds and thousands of years
standing deep-rooted to earth
and during those years
Cedar dreams of becoming canoe
dreaming a vessel
carved from wood and spirit
heart and song and breath
Cedar dreams a vessel
paddling through generations
paddling through nations
hhoo hhoo hhoo

Section I

Splashes From Paddle's Tip

go
tear drop blood drop rain drop
hhoo hhoo hhoo
paddles pump in unison
ocean salt spray
splashes from paddle's tip
hhoo hhoo hhoo
community togetherness
hhoo hhoo hhoo
survival
fishing hunting gathering
hhoo hhoo hhoo
go
blood drop tear drop rain drop
hhoo hhoo hhoo
breath exhale and breath again

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15

I

Wil George

and in between those breaths
Cedar dreams of becoming great canoe
to the ocean to the ocean
Cedar dreams of being war canoe
to the ocean to the ocean
canoe journeys out to the ocean
with majesty and respect
Cedar canoe
hhoo hhoo hhoo
go
rain drop blood drop tear drop
hhoo hhoo hhoo
as the Indian river
flows into the burrard inlet
flowing out to the ocean
my grandfather and grandfathers
paddled in canoes
instead of cedar carved canoe I have a pen
hhoo hhoo hhoo
go
tear drop rain drop blood drop in my canoe
my canoe - asking praying knowing I am my canoe
cedar my canoe is my pen
the paddle words I share again

HHOO HHOO HHOO

Crystal Lee Clark

i am from ....
am
from
northern lights
sparkling stars of midnight
dark
eyes filled with insight
i am from bright moons
shifting moons
i am from childhood kites trying to
touch the blue sky drifting at noon
when only grey clouds
feel fields of wishful dandelions
i am from scripted lines of star filled
happy days ... friends ... star wars ... another world
i am from pablo neruda, pablo picasso,
pavlov's dog and pablum
i am from prosthetic memories and
protected memories
i am from desires, wants, needs
i am from twisting tiger lilies and weeds
twisting tongues and hearts planting seeds
i am from the land of logos, egos and
diluted goals
and a dream house made of legos
i am from barbie dolls
jam packed malls and
shopping centers
i am from the middle
in the middle
of vast skies and sky scrapers

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Crystal Lee Clark

Richard Van Camp

i am from, in a sense,
innocence
and i am from, in a sense,
expenence

Kissing Day
Well I finally figured'er out.
When I was a boy growing up in Fort Smith
I remember the parties my parents threw.
New Year's Eve
Lots of fun
Stayed up late, boy, watchin' everything.
Come midnight
all the adults run around kissin' everyone.
Lights out!
Women kissin' men!
Men kissin' women!
Some took off to the bathroom or basement.
Took a long time gettin'er done!
I read today from a Cree Elder that they used to call Christmas and
New Year's
"Kissing Day"
because that's what they did.
I guess the Crees learned my folks and they wanted to share it, eh?
There's lots of Crees in Smith
but no Crees at our parties ...

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I

So I started thinking that if you've been married for ten years,
I bet you'd get curious about someone else,
how they'd kiss maybe
or move against you maybe.
(What would you do if you had five minutes alone with someone
again?)
So I guess you got to make it count on Kissing Day.
Make you feel good for a whole year
'til next time.

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Richard Van Camp

And maybe that's why I get kicked out of all these New Year's
parties now.
I'm runnin' 'round kissin' women, eh?
Feels good but I catch heck in the truck all the way home.

r

Jeannette C. Armstong

Remembering Lorne Simon
October 1994

The tragic news of Lome Simon's untimely death shocked and deeply
saddened all who had come to love him and his writing. He was loved
by and influenced many native writers who were in personal contact
with him. He kept in constant touch with many fellow native writers
by letter. Instead of ordinary letters, Lome wrote poems and stories to
fellow writers. It was always with wonderful anticipation that I opened
his letters of ten or more pages. I knew Lome as a deeply contemplative young artist whose writing, though he had just begun to publish,
had reached a maturity which promised a future as one of Canada's
most significant native writers. His contribution to us has had a deep
impact.
His own words, from a letter I received shortly before his death,
gave insight into an important vision which he had. He said, "You
wrote in one of the cards that you recently spoke to the public on the
excitement you felt about the work native writers will be doing in the
future in reclaiming and revitalizing their past and their cultural
heritage. I do feel that I am part of this exciting development. While
currently there are hardly any Mi 'kmaq writers who are vigorously
taking part in this effort, I am sure that I will be setting an example and
that others will follow. This, what I am doing, is a ripple emanating
from a pearl thrown into the pool of talent. Keep throwing pearls into
the pool, for they are not wasted."
Lome Simon will be missed and there will always be a void which
only his talent would have filled. His words, his time here, will not be
wasted. A movement which can only widen into greater circles has
begun. Those to follow, to add their pearls, will have his words and his
deepest wish, to reclaim and revitalize what is native, to guide them to
the pool.

That's the way she goes, I guess ...
So God bless the Crees and God bless my folks and good golly God
bless my ol' lady for putting up with me - even though she's runnin'
'round kissin' people too!

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Lorne Simon

Lorne Simon

Night

Nothing, it seemed to him now, had ever gone right. He stood,
breathing spasmodically, on the trail that entered into the woods
behind his parent's house. It was night. The stars sent the liquid luster
reflection of Trenton's lights on the still bay. The clouds hung like thin
veils one could brush aside to afford an unobstructed view of the fast
rising moon. A breeze whispered through the poplars carrying the
scent of sweetgrass. In his right fist, Gordon clenched his father's
hunting knife.
His dark eyes turned inward where a fire burned. Of the nineteen
years of his life, Gordon, bitterly and shamefully, could only count his
earliest years as a time he had known happiness.
"Those years. Were they real? They are like those dark clouds distant, illusory. I can't even say with certainty I was happy once!"
No echo answered this outburst, only the rustle of the leaves and
the life of Trenton could be heard. Gordon's bitterness could find no
words, he rejected them with contempt. His eyes clenched shut. A
groan crawled out from the pit of his stomach.
"Oh, soul, be free!" He wanted to cry out but felt an overpowering
disgust for words. Words argued until they bogged him down with
only one thing that, in the end, was certain - uncertainty. One action
became as useless as another. More than ever, Gordon longed to leap
beyond language into the silent omniscience that he imagined cosmic
awareness to be. His thoughts would not quit; they moved deliberately,
shifted randomly like the sudden gusts that shook the leaves.
He blamed his older brother Phillip for having cut short his happy
years. Gordon had been his parent's favorite. When Gordon turned six,
Phillip began to beat on him. The beatings desecrated his spirit. Shame
followed every beating. Out of pride and so as not to reveal his shame,
he endured years of beatings and never once told on his brother. By the
time he turned eleven he felt that everything good in him had been
violated and that he was guilty for it. Had he really deserved to be
loved by his parents so much more? When he turned fifteen and
towered over his brother, he did not avenge himself.
With a sharp intake of air, his mouth and lungs detected the
mysterious thickening presence of dew. Had he looked to the left he

would have seen fine silvery threads endlessly weaving a trail through
the darkening woods, the filament drooping like strings of pearls
under the gathering crystals of dew. He would have seen the familiar
and enchanting dome of light pulsing several miles to the north
indicating the seaside Acadian village of St-Antoine. Had he glanced
up he would not have waited long to witness the blazing descent of a
falling star.
Gordon clung to the picture of his lost innocence. He wanted to
savor the bitterness before turning his thoughts to a more torturous
matter. He recalled the simple faith he once had in God. There was a
belief in the village of Trenton that if you saved a person from certain
death the rescuer was assured a place in Paradise. Gordon saw himself
as a boy, a small solitary figure walking along the shore looking out at
the waters for some poor drowning swimmer to save. The picture
struck him as poignant at first. He used to feel the certainty of faith,
everything around him used to be vital. He used to be na'ive. "Na'ive,"
spat from his lips and his eyes flooded. The past was nothing but
pathetic sentimentality.
His watery eyes looked on as Venus pulsed and grew. He thought
of Christ in the garden and saw not the savior, but a sad and broken
man. The knife would be Gordon's bitter cup.
Laughter and the incessant barking of dogs became muffied in the
solemn dignity of the forest. "The weekend - and everyone my age is
having fun," he thought. The shrill and exaggerated laugh of a young
girl echoed through the village followed by the shouts of bold
carousers. Cars roared. Tires squealed. Suddenly, the thing that was
tearing most at Gordon's heart leapt to the fore of his thoughts.
"I loved you, Daria!" he screamed. "You goddamn bitch, I loved
you!"
He fell silent, jaw slack, and for a long moment Daria's face, her
body, her dazzling smile, her laughter and her mischievous eyes filled
his mind and blinded him to the world. Such beauty! He regretted his
harshness and was ashamed of what he had just called her. He cursed
his morbid and sensitive nature which seemed forever at odds with the
frivolous nature of the world. His anger grew.
"You told me you loved me," he cried. "But you don't know what
love is or what a treasure you are. You throw yourself at any man who
will buy you a good time. Is it because you want to show me that you

22

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En 'owkin class assignment 1991

Lorne Simon

Lorne Simon

can have any man?" Silence. "No. You will never see me jealous. Why
should I hate another man when you have encouraged him? It is you I
must banish from my heart. You!"
But Gordon knew he could not do it. He had no resolve. All he
could see before him was terrifying loneliness, a vast and empty
cavern that swallowed him and his future. It would always be this way.
Forever apart, alone in his pain and humiliation. Others had some kind
of marginal happiness - a family and domestic contentment.
Why does eternity torment me?
Love meant to hold exclusively and to be held exclusively for all
time and beyond death. Gordon knew this union which he hungered
for was ideal, but his passionate soul could not settle for anything less.
Born alone to die alone. The thought flashed through his mind.
"Why?"
He began to yell as though a javelin from the cold distances of
space had pierced him.
"Answer me!" he yelled."If you exist, God, show me a sign! Let
that be Your answer! I shall forever be soothed! I shall be Your most
devout servant! Just show me a sign! Tell me that there is more than
this bleak night! A sign, God, a sign! No one, I promise You, will love
You more than I! No one will worship You more or show greater reverence than I if You will only show me a sign! Dear God, if You exist ... "
His ranting became incoherent. He remained on his feet, a small
part of him fully expecting a sign. In the quiet that followed the breeze
moaned like a phantom mourning for all transience.
"Damn you," Gordon yelled. "If You don't exist than neither does
the Beast! Still, if he appeared I would kiss his feet and be a slave
forever. Just tell me Satan, that there is more than this night. Just tell
me that the soul lives forever!"
The stars remained mute like a host of friends smiling and dumb
in their conspiracy. A pale green moon cleared the clouds and sent
florescent light rushing over the earth to penetrate the forest. A bat
flew overhead, oblivious to everything below, intent only on reaching
its destination. The breeze moved searchingly through the forest,
transforming itself from an indefinable ether form to an almost solid
hulk that could shake the trees. A frightened little creature scurried
over the twigs and dead leaves.

"What is there to live for then?" Gordon asked with his head
bowed low.
In an instant, he was strangely alert, his eyes open wide and his
head cocked. He gasped, "And Lord, nothing ... nothing to die for!"
He choked for a moment on his sobs before they burst out like the
cough of a sick beast. His fingers turned icy. The knife dropped. He
wept.

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Trevor Cameron
Trevor Cameron

wild gorgeous beast

as she slowly bent down
she was the dancing shadow of a swaying poplar tree
the sun was kind
winking her dark then light dark then light
the fish were hypnotized

the perch were
shoving and swimming
shoving
and swimming
they were so many so small
blurred
bound by the swim
the jostle of mystical memory

her hands slipped
under a cold slimy belly
she flipped a fish onto the
sandy shore to slap and jump at my feet

dad took me and Beth down
to Amisk River to
watch the men brown with summer
scoop their meals out with the nets
slotted spoons that left only the golden cream

Nature's camouflage tricked my eyes too
one blink
and the wild gorgeous beast before me
wore my sister's black rubber boots.

dad wandered off to the trucks
parked on the high dirt road to
bullshit and laugh with the men
they loaded
red and white coolers of perch into their pickups
they shed green rubber waders
dried wet arms hands
i plopped down on the sandy embankment
watched Beth
wade into the green river
measured steps the river metered out
small short steps to her final note by the rocks
and the fish thought she was one of the still smooth
stones in the stream
letting the water rush by her
the rapid excited buzz of her pulse slowed
chilled by the icy flow

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Trevor Cameron

Trevor Cameron

Reunion
Pigs were squealing, trying to dig deeper into the mud to escape the
afternoon heat. My oldest brother Henry told me that pigs can't sweat.
That's why it's dumb to say, "Sweat like a pig". I shivered and
scratched at an imaginary bug crawling under my yellow t-shirt and up
my back. Pigs are gross, they will eat anything. That's why feeding
them is not part of my chores. Jack says that having my hands near the
trough would be enough for them to start chewing them off. Ugh!
Henry says little Indian girls with green eyes are the yummiest
and that's why I get bit more, even from the mosquitoes. Teenagers are
so dumb.
I had fed and watered the chickens and now they dotted the lush
green of the yard. They seemed to scratch around at nothing, probably
looking for little bugs. I ran towards one throwing my hands in the air
and making scary gobble-de-gook noises. I laughed and shook my
head. She didn't try to run very far, just a loud squawk and a jump.
Oops! I forgot I was trying to be quiet. I took the softest steps I
could across the yard; my brown ponytail bounced against the middle
of my back like the finger of a friend egging me on. It was the middle
of July and my cousins were coming to visit for the reserve's powwow; I wanted to fix up my room. I skipped up the porch stairs, took
off my black rubber boots and inched the screen door open. Safe. Mom
and Jen weren't in the kitchen. I had to be careful because lately,
conversations at our dinner table became a debate on how many
chores an eight year old was capable of doing. Jen, my older sister,
believes in child labour.
I slid down the hallway in my white socks, the slight breeze
brushed back my bangs. I jumped to hug the wall as I passed my
parent's room. Mom on her bed with a small box in her hands. My
room is next door and I tiptoed to it. Carefully turning the doorknob
closed, I let out a breath.
"Mom. Mom!"
It was Jen yelling. Jen is a teenager, and Mom really likes to go
shopping with her. Jen says that it is unfair that she has brown eyes and
that I'm pretty 'cause I don't even care what I look like. One time, she
offered to paint my nails. I had so much dirt under my fingernails she
called me a heathen. I asked Dad what that meant and he said Jen was

jealous of me because I'm a real farm girl.
"Could you please help me?"
Jen was right outside my parent's room but yelling as if she was
outside in the garden. "I need you to tell me which one looks good.
Come on."
I lean against my door, listening to their footsteps going down the
hall. That was too close for me; I should go back outside. I started
down the hall but froze when I heard the bathroom door open. I
ducked into Mom and Dad's room.
We weren't allowed in my parent's room but I felt safe as long as
I heard the buzz of my Mom and Jen in the bathroom next door. The
room always had a subtle bleach smell; it smelled fresh like their
sheets, hot white and baked in the sun. Their bedroom was clean (not
one piece of clothing on the floor) and cozy, the crazy quilt on the bed
was a kaleidoscope of stories and colour. The little box still on the bed.
The lid was flipped open and the brown paper lining was stained and
frayed at the corners. Inside was a small wooden carving. I picked it
up. It was a little girl with a bob haircut wearing a dress, smooth,
except for the face. I rubbed my thumb over the sharp nose and chin.
Danger. The hive next door went quiet. The soft shuffle of Mom's
slippers on the wooden hallway floor beat down the rumble of adrenalin in my ears. I dropped the carving back into the box, ran to the
other side of the bed and dove under. I knew I would fit because last
year my parents had attended a dance. Jen was babysitting me when
we decided to dig out the two cardboard boxes under here. We
expected to find treasure but only found neatly folded old clothes that
stunk of mothballs.
I grabbed my mouth, willing myself to breathe normally. I stayed
on my belly with the breath from my nose scattering the dust balls.
The tile was hard and cold like a frozen winter pond against my legs.
I wished I wasn't wearing shorts. I wished I had never come into this
room. I shimmied over and positioned myself next to the boxes. I was
like a huge chamois, picking up all the dust, dirt and loose hairs from
the floor. I never ever thought it would be this dirty under here. I
turned my head sideways and watched the blue moccasins step into the
room.
Mom was bare legged. When she sat on the bed it gave a deep
creak as though welcoming her back. I smelled the perfume of the

28

29

Trevor Cameron

Trevor Cameron

apple lotion she rubbed on every morning and night. On her skin it
smelled like apple rhubarb pie. In the reflection of the full-length
mirror I could see Mom in her denim skirt and green plaid shirt. She
picked up the carving. Suddenly she slumped onto the bed. I started to
crawl out but the bed began to shake. So I curled into a ball and
covered my head. As quickly as th shaking started, it stopped. I
unfurled myself when I heard Mom speak.
"Tansi."
I opened my eyes and blinked away the dust on my eyelashes.
"Ah, it's hard to get a moment to myself when the kids are home
during the summer. Vicki is no problem to chase outside, I hardly see
her until dinner. But Jen."
I rubbed my eyes. Who was my mom talking to? I watched her in
the mirror. She looked toward the bottom of the bed, smiled and shook
her head. I could see no legs. Maybe it was just Dad who jumped onto
the bed, but he wasn't out in the field with my brothers Jack and
Henry?
"Oh? Hmmm."
I wanted to hide behind the protective cover of the boxes but
didn't want to move because I could see her green eyes narrow and
squint into the mirror. She leaned forward, closer to the mirror, the
carving in her hand. She sat back and looked to my side of the bed.
"It's so sweet. Ha. I never did such a thing." She giggled. "Oh yes,
I do remember that time when you found us crawling between the
bales. You gave me the worst spankin'. Bah, it wasn't because I was
your favorite."
Then Mom stood and stretched. "Well, it might be funny to stay
here all day, and see what kind of surprises I might find right under my
nose, but I have to go to town today. And I want to have a coffee before
I go."
She shuffled out of the room and went down the hallway. I
dropped my head to the floor. I finally could get out of here. As I
started to slide out, a pair oflegs suddenly blocked me. The big brown
boots were scuffed and well worn.
"Well, you gonna come outta there?" said a man's deep voice.
Caught. I was in trouble now. The legs moved over to give me
room so I slid out and pulled myself up. I looked up at a very tall old
man. He was skinny with hands as big as my brother Henry's. He wore

blue jean overalls and a brown buttoned up shirt. He held a cap in his
right hand that he switched to his left one and held out the empty hand
to me. "Come on let's go see your mom."
I stared at him. His hand felt warm on mine. I was ashamed that
my hand was cold. I wanted to tear it out of his grasp but his hands felt
like my dad's hard hands. I could feel every ridge. His boots echoed
on the wooden floor of the hallway. He paused slightly to look at the
black and white pictures that were on the walls.
"Those are my ancestors," I said.
"Hmm. That so?" he chuckled and squeezed my hand.
I looked at a favorite picture of my Kokom on her wedding day.
She looked really pretty and I liked to guess what color her sweater
was when the picture was taken. As I stared at the picture, out of the
comer of my eye I realized the man as tall as Henry and Jack. I peeked
at him, quickly then back at the pictures on the wall.
He was looking at a picture of my great grandfather with his
teenage children, Harry his oldest son, and his oldest daughter, Emma
(my Kokom). My great grandfather was tall. Everyone said that's how
Henry and Jack got their tallness. Because my Mom and Dad were
short. In the picture Jonah, my great grandfather, was dressed in a dark
suit although he looked sort of mean and he wasn't smiling at all.
I looked at the picture, looked at the man, looked at the picture,
looked at the man. He looked down at me and I whipped my head low
to st~re at my feet. I licked my dry lips. My hands felt clammy,
especially the one he held. So I tried to wriggle it out from his gentle
hold.
"Wh-who are you?" I asked. He let go of my hand. I wiped them
on my t-shirt, my favorite yellow one with Tweety Bird on it. He
shifted from side to side. With a small smile that was kind of sad, his
hand came up to rest on his lips. I took his free hand.
"This is me."
I pulled him to the bright school pictures of my brothers, sister
and me, " I only got two school pictures up there." I led him toward
the kitchen.
"Henry and Jack got lots up there, 'cause they're finished school.
Jen gots lots too but she hates her pictures being on the wall." Mom
was adding milk to her coffee and stirring it when we arrived.
"Oh-my-gosh."

30

31

~

Trevor Cameron

The spoon fell inside the cup. She made the sign of the cross.
"Oh, Holy Christopher."
Small sobs escaped from her and her eyes welled up with tears.
She ran over and hugged me.
"Can she see you?" she asked the old man. He nodded his head
yes and patted me on the head.
"Oh-my-gosh."
A kernel of fear that popped into full-blown tears. I realized that
Mom was not scared, she was crying for happiness.
"Vicki, this is my Mooshom Jonah. He is your great-grandfather."
My great-grandfather. I had never met my great-grandfather
before. When my Kokom died, I was too little to remember her. At the
time my Mooshom was living with a girlfriend in the city. When I
looked up at Jonah, he smiled. He had green eyes - like Mom and me.
I liked him. He laughed a deep rumbly laugh and leaned over to
squeeze my shoulders in a hard hug.
"What's going on here?"
I didn't even hear Jen come upstairs from her room in the
basement. She usually made so much noise that I imagined she was
pulling a sack of mad turkeys up the stairs. Mom pulled herself
straight and wiped her eyes.
"I love you girls. That's all." She walked over to Jen, hugged her
and kissed her on the cheek.
"Ooo-kay." Jen patted my mom on the back and wriggled free
from her hug.
I could barely contain myself and bit my tongue in excitement.
Jen was going to be so surprised that our great-grandfather was here.
I pointed to Jonah and smiled. Jen rolled her eyes and pushed past me.
" Whatever."
I latched onto her arm and she dragged me along for a few steps.
"Get off, freak," She peeled my hands off and dropped me onto the
beige linoleum floor.
She shook her head and turned to open the refrigerator door, "Oh
great. Who keeps putting the pitcher back in here empty? Ugh."
Jen slammed the fridge door shut and stomped to the sink. When
she turned on the tap I could feel her anger flowing like the water
running from the tap.
"B-b-b-b-but Jen."
32

r

I

Trevor Cameron

I was not even aware that I was dancing around in one spot until
Jen said, "You need to pee or something?"
"Well, I need to check on the horses." Jonah kissed me on top of
my head, then he walked over to Jen, who was digging in the
cupboard.
"Jen." I screamed. "Behind you. Behind you."
I was laughing so hard that I fell to the floor. Jen seemed to be
pretending that she couldn't see Great-grandfather, Jonah "Right
there," I managed to squeak out in between laughter and breath. Jonah
kissed her on top of her head. "Mom. What's the matter with this kid?"
Returning to her cupboard digging. "You better check her out,
maybe she's got sunstroke or something."
I wiped the tears off and tried to hold my laughter down. My
stomach hurt from laughing so hard. I looked at Jen and then back to
Mom and Jonah. Mom went to open the kitchen door. "I'll need you
girls to help me get the clothes on the line."
Jonah winked at me and kissed Mom on the cheek and stepped
outside onto the porch.
"Aww, Mom. I already helped get the clothes on the line this
morning," Jen moaned.
The clink of the wooden spoon on the pitcher beat a half time
percussion against the pounding in my ears. I felt odd - a floating
feeling like I was a ghost in a weird dream. Mom touched my shoulder
and I jumped like our cat Missy did when I woke her. She walked to
the counter, opened a drawer and took out an apron which she tied on
me.
"Come on Jen," she said. "Let's all get the dry clothes and hang
up the next load."
Jen poured herself a half glass of juice and swallowed it in two
gulps. "This pitcher better be full when we get back in here."
The three of us went outside. The porch was shaded and had
shelving for boots and shoes. On top of the shelves were the plastic
baskets, two empty ones and two full of wet clothes and sheets. Jen
took her pink apron from a smaller wooden basket that held all the
wooden clothespins and two aprons, Jen's pink one and another green
apron.
Mom tied the green on. She pulled me closer and filled the
pockets of my apron with clothespins. Jen stomped down the steps
33

r

Tn•,oc Camema

with an empty basket crushed to her hip and went down to the clothesline.
Mom took the wooden carving out of her skirt pocket.
"This is me when I was your age. Mooshom Jonah carved it for
me. He died just before you were born." She knelt down to look into
my eyes. "I've always needed it to see him. I can't believe you can see
him without it." She shook her head and smiled. " He's a very good
storyteller, you know."
"Was that really him? Isn't he dead?"
"Yes. Does that scare you?"
I looked down at the whitewashed floor of the porch, biting my
thumbnail.
"Helloooo. I thought we were all supposed to be taking the
clothes off the line," Jen yelled from the side of the house. "Gawd, I
should get extra allowance for this."
We both laughed.
Mom tucked the carving back into her apron pocket and she went
down the steps and around the comer of the house.
I grabbed an empty basket as I looked out across the farmyard, it
seemed that everything was brighter. It seemed as though I was
looking through a ViewMaster and the picture card in it was of my
yard. And me, I was holding the Viewmaster right up to the sun.

34

)
/

Joe Kruger

Word From Our Sponsor
Breakdown of the structure of the traditional family
What kind of man will I grow to be tomorrow
Learned behavior from my boxed in babysitter,
As a twig is bent, so shall the tree grow
for this, I was birthed to live and breath
But never to leave this bright iridescent glow
Diverting my narrowed scope of perception
Dulling, numbing and blind
All but total sensory deprivation
Attention focused on colors and blinking lights
Whatever happened to the forgotten art of conversation
During this word from our sponsor, I have no time to live my life

35

Joe Kruger

Joe Kruger

That Shiny Little Orange And Yellow Fish

My Roots In Retrospect And Metaphor

He glides back and forth
in his little world
With only a little
scuba guy for company
This is his universe,
this little bowl
He has no abstract thought
or long term memory.

Once, a long time ago
My great, great, great grandmother
Strong
Proud
And unbroken. With love,
Fed her brood from her
Strong, unbreakable breast
To raise a
Lost
Hungry
And weak child
Who would have died
Only to have him take
From his brother's mouth
Food that was given freely
To a child out of love.

If he's been happy for
thirty seconds then,
He's been happy all his life
and no further can he see
Corral rocks,
and shells
provide him with the
illusion that he is free.

And she became ill.
Once, a long time ago
My great, great, great grandfather
Strong
Proud
And unbroken. In friendship,
Relaxed a clenched and
Strong, unbreakable fist
To extend an open
Hand to pick up a
Lost
Hungry
And weak man
Who could not stand
Only to have his fingers

36

37

Graham Scott Proulx

Joe Kruger

Ignorance and Indians

Broken one at a time
On the hand extended
To a man in need.
And he became bitter.

I
38

A while back, a good friend of mine shared a rather amusing anecdote
about a conversation he had with a Canadian within forty-eight hours
of arriving in Vancouver on a work visa. He took in a local cafe and
being a friendly, outgoing individual, struck up a conversation with
one of the locals. The local was confused from the outset and she
became increasingly so as they continued. You see, his thick EastLondon accent (at least in her mind) didn't jive with his facial features
and dark complexion. She asked where he was from.
After a few moments, she seemed relieved. "So you 're East
Indian?"
Now it was my friend's tum to be confused. "Ah, no. Actually, my
mother is Persian and my father is originally from western India."
"Yeah, so you're an East Indian", she said with an ingratiating
smile. "No," he said while wondering if she misunderstood. "I was
born in England ... " he began and painted a detailed picture of his
background.
The confusion in her eyes was replaced by a glaze and then, of all
things, amusement. "Yes," she said with a patronizing pat on his
forearm, "but you're still an East Indian."
She rose from her chair and left him staring at the withering foam
of his latte. So much for the legendary liberal reputation Canadians
have abroad. My friend's bewilderment at this odd bit of classification
didn't last long as he soon met people who were more enlightened they
helped fill in the cultural gaps.
The East Indian label is an acceptable one to most Canadians, but
is the furthest thing from being liberal. In fact, it serves only to keep
the racist mentality of mainstream consciousness alive and well. While
some repercussions of colonization have gone the way of the dodo
bird (or the vast herds of buffalo), so much lingers on like a festering
sore.
East Indian ... east of what? East of England that's what. But hey,
we live in a post-colonial era, eh?
Working in several elementary schools on the West Coast as an
Aboriginal Liaison, I am privy to all sorts of glaring examples of
hypocrisy. The majority of students in these communities are of Indian
ancestry and the sense of bewilderment my friend had experienced is
39

Graham Scott Proulx

Graham Scott Proulx

often mirrored in their faces as well. In truth, many see themselves and
their relations as Indians or Indo-Canadians. The vast majority of the
non-Indian students, Aboriginal students included, call them Hindus,
Towel Heads and Pakies, among other inaccurate appellations and
insulting slurs. Ironically, only a small fraction have immigrated from
Pakistan. The population in this area are predominantly Sikh from
Punjab that lies in western India.
My job consists of many things, including academic support and
the cultural enrichment of the Aboriginal population. I tend to spend a
great deal of energy bridging cultural gaps among students, teachers,
administrators and parents. Having grown up in redneck country in
southern Alberta, I always imagined relations between cultures would
be more amicable elsewhere. I soon discovered this was not the case.
The racism was frighteningly subversive. Even more frightening was
the level of internalized racism in the Aboriginal community.
Politically speaking, old regional rivalries between Indigenous
nations have largely dissolved. War parties no longer stalk the waterways and trade routes. Sadly, I have met individuals who still harbor
prejudice against their former enemies, although they are thousands of
kilometers from their homelands. The dividing lines and reshaping of
territory imposed by the governments of Canada echoes in our collective hearts and minds. Status vs. non-Status vs. C-31 vs. Metis. Child
vs. Parent vs. Elder. Traditional vs. Christian. Policies and legislation
forced upon our ancestors were designed not only to subjugate and
oppress, but to focus our energies inward, against each other and
against ourselves. Most of the Aboriginal students I encounter have
only a vague idea of which nation(s) they hail from. Their cultural
identity, eroded by colonization, has been replaced with apathy,
shame, misplaced resentment and anger - and worst of all, selfdestruction.
While enormous efforts are being made across Turtle Island to
reinstall pride in ourselves, stereotypes and misunderstanding persist
on both sides of the divide. This is nothing new. What is relatively new
are the negative energies being directed at immigrants, people of color,
who have come to share our lands. Ironically, a popular line of attack
is aimed toward the retention of languages and cultural beliefs.
Demanding that these families drop all ties and become assimilated
Canadians is a tragic case of social projection. Perhaps even more

ironic is that these people are awakening from their own colonial
nightmares. In misdirecting our energies in this way, we strengthen
those bonds we struggle to break. Why don't we focus on commonalities and understanding our differences?
I have an advantage in addressing this issue with students since I
come from a long line of mixed blood marriages that date back to the
mid-16th century, some that include traditional enemies. Somewhere
between Cartier's abductions of sons and daughters and Champlain's
war on the beaver, my Aboriginal and French ancestors began intermarrying among the nations along what is now known as the St.
Lawrence seaway. Inspired by the arrogance and ignorance of
Columbus the European fortune hunters who came to the northern
reaches of Turtle Island carried on with the tradition of mistranslation,
misunderstanding and haughty indifference toward the original names
of the peoples, places and cultural practices of this land.
My history lessons open with the word Aboriginal. Many of us
are fixated on the prefix ab as having negative connotations: as in
abnormal, abominable or abhorrent. Yet, the prefix has neither
positive nor negative implications; it is merely Latin for "from". The
rest of the word is self-explanatory. Now step into imaginary birchbark
canoes and paddle along the ancient waterways my ancestors traveled.
Beginning with the Mi'kmaw (Mi'kmaq), the students and I travel
upriver into the lands of the Wendat (Huron), the Mamiwinini
(Algonquin), the Kanienkehaka (Mohawk), the Anishnabek (Ojibway)
and up to James Bay into Kenistenaag (Cree) territory. The latter is a
prime example of mistranslation as Kenistenaag became Kristinaux,
then morphed into Cris and finally anglicized to Cree. Having shared
the rich diversity of my Metis background with the students, it allows
not only for an alterNative angle of the early years of contact, conflict
and trade, but as a springboard into constructive discourse surrounding
over 500 years of race relations.
There is no arguing that the underlying motives of greed and
manifest destiny of the European forays into the New World have
warped the world-view of both the colonizer and colonized.
Resentment and hatred thrive on both sides. History has always
painted the dominant culture in the best possible light. Throughout
written history, very little survives in the way of contemporary criticism. This form of oppression has plagued relations between the

40

41

Graham Scott Proulx

Graham Scott Proulx

Aboriginal Peoples of Turtle Island and our neighbors for centuries.
Canadians generally see themselves as an enlightened society, the
voice of reason in global affairs, promoting equality, democracy and
advocacy of human rights. Having swept the nastier side of our history
under the carpet of international humanitarianism and universal health
care makes it near impossible for the average Canadian to accept
Aboriginal Peoples true history.
Maintaining the status quo has been a priority long before the
nation of Canada was formed. American tactics in Native relations
through history are often criticized by Canadians as wantonly violent,
callous and even savage. The difference between these two powers
that be is that Canadian authorities have been more history conscious
and ultimately more subversive in their dealings. Any attempts to
reassert the autonomy and sovereignty of the Indigenous peoples have
been met, with submission, by starvation, by slander, by biological
agents and by threatened or active violence.
What has really changed since the Indian Wars of the eastern
woodlands, since the massacre at Wounded Knee or the Rebellions of
1870 and 1885 on the plains? The confrontations at Kanesatake and
Gustafson Lake are only exceptional in that the media was there to
enforce and therefore dictated a little caution on the part of the
Canadian authorities. Violence was still the outcome and was once
again initiated by the non-Native side of the barricades. The truth is
still filtered and distorted to paint the warriors as frothing, unreasonable militants.
Once a savage, always a savage, eh?
If we can dispel the old enmities within ourselves and between
nations we can continue to quash stereotypes and prejudice in a far
more effective manner. Our collective voice will grow in strength and
volume. The trickle of truth and justice that currently flows will
inevitably feed into a mighty river. Indian resistance against English
dominance under Mahatma Ghandi is an inspiring starting point. The
strength and pride of regional nations will bring us together as One
Great Nation. Perhaps, by focusing on our commonalities with the
other colonized peoples of the world instead of resenting them as we
are conditioned to, together we can decolonize Turtle Island. Finally
our attentions can shift as they should, to restoring the sacred balance
and healing of Mother Earth.

Alone, our struggle will flounder. Together, the river of change
will be undamable, flowing into a harmonious future. By honoring the
spirit of our ancestors who initially agreed to share this bountiful land,
perhaps we can move towards this end sooner rather than later. The
powers that be must also honour this and acknowledge the wrongdoings and injustices of the past and present. Perhaps then we will
move into a future in which the Great Peace of the Haudenosaunee
(Iroquois) Confederacy, the template for democracy around the world,
will reign for seven generations and beyond.

42

43

Margaret Orr

Margaret Orr

Fort George Island

Alone

Minshtook, *
On warm summer days
We walk through
Your tall grasses
To sit under
Your giant spruce trees
And talk about
Far away places.

There is a creek, full of fish and other
animals, she is full of life
the creek runs through the valley
meandering along ponderosa pines
alone, yet full because she is
married to the earth and carries life
within her currents

Minshtook,
From your sandy shores
We place our canoes in the water
And rock to a gentle rhythm
With our paddles
To nearby places
For fish, animals, birds and berries.

Your neepsee* provides
Secret places for embracing lovers
While others scoop pails of water
To carry home for washing and cooking.
Over the mouth of your mighty river
The reds and oranges of the setting sun
Casts a glow of warmth upon watching faces
Before they settle down for the night
In the yellow glow of kerosene lamps,
Candlesticks, and fireplaces.
Minshtook,
You set my spirit free
To travel the Chisasibi
And salt water coastline
Of James Bay.

as the creek rushes over pebbles
and streams over boulders
she sings a song of many melodies
a deer with mighty antlers drinks deep
he is alone, magnificent
in all his glory walking over the earth
with delicate steps
to visit the creek on occasion
to arch his neck down
with gentle lips he sucks life
to stream down his throat
satisfied, he turns to disappear
into the forest, free
to take whichever path he chooses, leaving her
alone ... to trace over again and again
a set course, carrying life
within her wake
and songs of the earth.

*Minshtook = Island
*neepsee =underbrush, willows
44

45

Rohyn Kruger

Indian Princess:
Who I am
I am observation, sexual stimulation, no justification
I am reduced, disjoined, destructive and corrosive
I am transfixed by my beauty and my brain
I am immovable
I am repeatedly revived by moistened breath
I am flowing vibe motioning my hands for creation
I am with religious persuasion, blood, omitted
I am nurturer to Shifting White Cloud baby

Section 2

The Grandmothers are
Dancing in my Hair

I am not a stagnant Indian Princess
I am not miscellaneous or invisible
I am unforgettably her and will never
try and change who I am
to match society's prototype.

I
I

I

I
I
I

I

46

l_

Sharron Proulx

Sharron Proulx

time holds itself around the middle and laughs

they came on the voice of fire

this is where it all begins
that moment
that glorious moment
drives through a rainbow in her car
blossomed close
and blood earth red
heavy and upright
holding many trees

it is said
long time ago
seven young women
michahai yokuts women
two-spirit women
whose respect
for their parents
their grandparents
do not question
in their youth
the promise
to the parents
the grandparents
of beautiful young men
to marry
in the good way
of the time

on the other side
there is a whisper on the wet warm ground
imagine the sound
the round water sound
inside rain
if you go there
you'll be
eternity
After the rain, a small spotted eagle, her feathers spread like butter,
ready for bannock and tea. An urban eagle pretending to fit in and
looking for a piece of the pie. Small spotted eagle meets a woman on
the street. At first she thinks this woman is albino crow on account
of the shine on the car she's straddling, and remembering somewhere
in her something about crows and where the food is, she hovers
without hesitation, hunger leading her around like one of those dogs
she's seen on strings, happy to sniff at the edges of life.

with age
time slows
like wind on stone
after a storm
whose water washes
cleanses
softens
their delicate intent
unwinds
unable to love
their husbands

as women do
seven young women
put onion in their hair
their clothes
their breath
their beds
to keep their men
away

48

the years pass
in stillness
and still
seven young women
search
for a way
49

Sharron Proulx
Sharron Proulx

and so it is said
seven young women
pray
fast
six full days
their bones
parched and raining
fire
of power
like no other

away
a way to escape
from married life
once
and for all
time

to see
interpreters of dreams
as she
as he
to be
as he
as she

many hundreds
of star sisters
hidden from

six young

women

two
entwined

become
pleiades
oftaurus

the ordinary
human
eye

singers

seers
in one person
spirits female
to male
spirits male
to female

and after they fast
six full days
seven young women
make their way
to a cliff
so high
above the trees
their moons
go
their breath
slow

in time
seven young husbands
follow
mediators
healers

and there
on ropes
of eagle down
six young women
go
their movement
slow

eagle down
rises
to carry
six young women

seven young husbands
husbands

of brilliance

become
taurus
where
aldebaran
red star
whose gift
holds

visible
protect
surround

even celestial
six young women
do not wish
seven young
near

one young woman
the youngest
remams
with mother earth
transforms
to stone
This stone is mother to a small round stone held here until the time is
right. This is how this story is told to small spotted eagle by her
grandmother, who is told by her grandmother, who is told by her
grandmother is how small spotted eagle is told in her language.

50

51

r.irth

Richard Van Camp

Waiting ...

I
I

Indians can wait out anything.
We can wait out lovers
marnages
disease

I

I
I

We can even wait out Jesus.
We wait out bad coffee
cold showers
a beating
a rape
a lie.

Krystal Cook

Birth beckons me to cum
She wraps her cedar legs around my heart and squeezes hard
till she almost chokes my spirit out of my body
Until I give in to her labor pains
I begin to smell the stench of her rotten afterbirth
Sweet tangy sour and rotten gag caught in my gut throat
I threaten to puke all over the truth spirit has laid before me
Birth has dislodged all that was residing and stewing beneath my
salmon skin
The memories etched into my dna the generational trauma flowing in
my blood the gifts
sleeping in my bones and the gloryful bliss tattooed to my forehead
I breathe deep and full and know I can't stop this birth
There is no way to escape the rim of fire
I breathe belly again and surrender to the unknown mystery

The queens of our nations
we wait them out too.
The white man usually gets first crack
but we'll get her
when she returns to the home
we've circled for years.
We can wait out winter
seasons of deceit
nightmares
our lives ...

I go deep into the darkness to find bright light to create my new
dream
I wrestle and scrap it out hard with my demons with my parasites
with my monsters with my shadows with my hidden self
They and I become one and the same of dirt of spirit of everything primal
Bile blood bones snot puke shit piss mucus sweat
All mixed together being pushed out my pores like slimy play dough
For the earth to absorb transform shape shift and dissolve into tiny
healing crystal crackles
I hear the call of cedar babies and I stand up and let my womb be
softened and warmed butterscotch brown by their presence
After many sleepless nights I unlock myself from the steel cage I got
frozen into at conception
I walk out of my history
I resurrect my Sex Goddess
I hurl all the heavy fur blankets connecting me to woman pain off
my back in a huge fury that spans generations of Kwakwaka'wakw

52

53

Krvstal Cook

Krvstal Cook

women who rage to be free to be wild to remember who they are
I take one last breath rich and low from the depths of my swamp and
push with all my might to let
GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Energy
Energy is everything
Movement and tunnels shape into doorways caves into windows
mushrooms into rainbows cotton candy into purple stew
It carries all the stories of what's gone on
It knows ALL
Us, we carry our stories with us on the curve of our spine
in our lower lip
on the tips of our toes
on our right breast
in the texture of our hair
along our left jaw bone
and deep inside our throat
Energy shifts emotions/Energy movements situations/Energy brings
forth action
Energy emerges the truth/Energy unfolds experiences/Energy leads
us to discover clues about our life's bliss/Energy blows us into our
dark spots and keeps us there until we find courage to become our
magnificence/Energy brings the toxins in to our body and takes them
out/Energy creates destroys rebuilds transforms and heals
Energy tingles and shivers the intuition to guide us to safety within
our own body's Big House
away from danger into glory away from blurriness into color away
from dark into beauty away from fear into richness away from
sadness into belly laughter away from rage into pleasure away from
pain into truth away from illusion into vitality away from chaos into
sweetness away from deprivation into succulence away from shame
into gorgeousness away from guilt into dance away from intellect
into imagery away from control into rhythm away from judgment
into enlightenment away from concrete into innocence away from
horror into purity away from rigidity into the miracle away from
projection into the NOW

54

55

Krystal Cook

Krystal Cook

Energy is all
It moves it shapes
it brings life it kills
it reinvents it creates
it births it grows
it nurtures it hones
it depletes it nourishes

The Grandmothers are Dancing in My Hair

It's in out up down under above over around and through
It's all the little spots in between
It's the density that keeps us intact
It's the tool we have to guide protect heal truth tell transform rebuke
embrace accept and enjoy
Energy is ...

56

The Grandmothers are dancing in my hair
They're weaving and braiding a waltz
of warmth and sadness of secrets and rainbows
Slow. Suave. Molassy. Electric.
Each thick strand of blue-black hair
A world stage
for Grandmother
to belt her body story out for the universe to taste
Bright vivacious colors flying, twirling, gyrating their pitter-patter
onto scalp floor
Grandmothers' full, round hips shake dresses a - float, shake dresses
a-high
Grandmothers' hands tease, play, jostle,
tummy laughter to rise, riSE, RISE
onto soft, brown clouds of Goddess memory
Grandmother taunts, provokes, and pulls strands of bliss
for every Grandmother that ever dared to dance
for every daughter, aunty, cousin, niece, friend, sister
who couraged to remember
her Rhythm
The Grandmothers are dancing in my hair

57

Margaret Orr

Margaret Orr

Tree Dance
in the darkness of the night
a lone tipi lights the faces
of children watching their mother
watching their father
stepping lightly in a circle
around a fire
in rhythm to his drum
sparks fly into the air
through the smoke vent
into the star lit sky

different drums unite
as the grass dance unfolds
across the prairies
as the winter dance echoes
in the mountains
shawl dancers furl fringes
along rivers stretching over land
languages flow from mother tongues
speaking a past into the present
from ocean to ocean
rhythms voice a people
strong with the will for survival
swaying in time to the sound
of the wind and the rain
through pine cedar spruce cottonwood
aspen willow spread their branches to the sky

two rivers north
a tall dome shaped
tent shakes to a low chant
visions of migrating caribou
traverse the eyes
of a medew
southwest over the land
to behold the eyes of a hunter

medew = shaman
nihii nihii = yes yes, as used in chant
medewewin = medicine lodge society

nihii nihii
shaking tent has returned
to the hearts of the people
so has medewewin
sun dance
winter dance
potlatch

hey hey
the drum strikes hard
across the land
and the sound of music
fills my soul
bigger than the sound of music
in the Grand Hall
at the Museum of Civilization
58

59

Margaret Orr

Margaret Orr

Contours

drive me out of my mind.

I am stuck in the
present and future
television life of
different strips of
made up words
broken words
bouncing off
satellite stations
threatening to
fling me into
another mindless
foreign dimension
other than the one
I already
struggle to escape.

Aimlessly I wander
over parallel
upon parallel of
pavement, neon,
red and green lights,
until, in the distance,
peeking through
a tree imprisoned
by vertical multiples
of post-Neolithic
slabs of cement,
a strip of glimmering
clear blue light
beckons me
to come.

Mindless
gut cursed
surreal words
left behind
spattered
on gritty greasy
pavement in the alley
ricochet higher and higher
up walls, echoing off
vertical multiples
of plain grey
cement blocks encasing
steel strips
while I roll along
strips on wheels down
strips upon strips
of pavement strapping
the surface of the earth
while molds of hard metal
cars threaten to

I respond to
the clear blue light.
Dead ends block
my way,
I backtrack
sharp comers
slipping over
garbage leaking
out of metal,
pot holes contain
no flowers,
people surge up
from the ground
from subways like
sardines from a rusty can.
Trembling, I break
through the greasy
metal mess.
Before me shines

60

61

Margaret Orr

Margaret Orr

the clear blue wall
of shimmering light.

upon flowery shore where
blanket soft heads
lead my longing
into warm nurturing
lines of contours
of shore line
and strip hard metal cars
from my mind to

Below the blue,
tall golden yellow
grass seed heads
swallow me into
waves of warm
undulating dances
to twirl me about
through streams
of rays that
bathe me in light
and drown out the
vertical multitudes
of cement buildings
that I have left behind.

nestle into
contours
upon contours
of bright yellow
petals to face the
new dawn ascending
from the horizon.

My soul fills
into the freedom
I longed for.

The sun
beckons me to
follow half
its journey back
to the time when
animals and people
wore leather,
and braided strips
of truth
into one mind
to follow
the natural laws of nature.

Twirling and twirling
I leave behind
parallels of strips
of hard concrete lines
to fall into yellow
soft contours,
to warm
black earth,
to stare at the
clear blue sky.
Falling into recesses
of the past
in dreamful sleep
to fields of
flowery shore
62

63

Brent Peacock-Cohen

Brent Peacock-Cohen

Essentialized Blindness

Lingering Question

You can't see me
with your essentialized eyes
I have no braids
or feathers

You are in the wind
J can feel you
pushing me forward
making me stronger
You force me to stand up straight

You can't see my spirit
my wings spread wide
chest full of pride
and my head lifted high

You are in the sunset
I can see you
hugging me with your last ray
allowing your sister starlight second watch
You bring me sleep

You can't see my power
as I peek from the woods
watching you
attacking your weakness

You are in the alpine meadow
I can smell you
drifting me across you
giving me a warm bed
You allow me to dream

You can't see my people
bound to the land
through blood relations
and speaking our tongue

You are in the salmon
I can taste you
providing me with protein
letting me be full
You provide a method of growth

You can't see my determination
it is all around you
as you step onto my land
looking for braids and feathers
You can't see the Indian
because of all the brown skinned people
standing in the way

You are in the eagle's voice
I can hear you
trailing behind your voice
blazing a new trail
You give me a direction
You are in my spirit
I can't breath without you
making my heart pump faster
causing my voice to stutter
my legs as I stand with you

64

65

Brent Peacock-Cohen

Karen W Olson

You are part of my family
You complete my being

Red Willow Baskets

For I am home

I plan my escape while nestled in threadbare flannel sheets
listening to crickets scrape their song
taunts me with harsh beauty
My bare feet wander over hard paths carved into
the heaving sides of a glittering snake whose
tongue flickers out to taste the souls it will devour
life struggles between the cracks of diamond scales
I run from a pitiful man who smells of piss and booze
my hand clenching dimes he demanded from me
as sweat drips from my brow to splatter on the sidewalk
dries fast under the hot sun
White lies send me across a sienna sky
sending my spirit flying over concrete spires that
spew sulphur clouds into blue paradise
cries from white buffalo woman
My escape has not gone unnoticed
My captors have not given up
I live cloaked in fog
weaving red willow baskets for my grandchildren

66

67

Fred Roberds

Fred Roberds

Silent Cries at Lullabies

festival of The Dead

Swinging from a shoelace,
That hangs from neither shoe nor boot,
Face painted up with grief.
I smile deaths wide tooth grin,
And stare through vacant eyes,
Shouting silent cries at lullabies that never end.

I enter the bar, sit back, kick my feet up and order a beer.
soon I am peering around thinking, how very much these
people remind me of an infestation, like maggots in the
rotting meat of a corpse.

I continue drinking and taking in everything visually.
I notice the phone booth is glowing red,
giving off a sickly aura of drug and sex related calls.
still I continue drinking,
Drip,
Drip,
Drip,

I

Ahhhhh, my only companion this night.
So lecherous, like a liquid succubae, so soothing, so nice.
it leaves me wanting more while sucking out my soul.
Nothing more than a shadow of myself I exit the bar,
Like a thousand phantom dogs running fiery circles through
my soul.
I lash out at everything.
I recall thinking this must be the festival of the dead

I
I

I
I
I
I

I
I

I
68

_l__

69

Joy Kogawa

Revised Its 'ka
Chapter One
Spring, 1983.

Section 3

Family Gathering

Aunt Emily Kato is standing behind the guardrail at Toronto's airport
hailing exuberantly as I exit the baggage area with my cart piled high
with luggage. There is a twinkly-eyed bear of a man behind her
holding a camera and ready to shoot. Beside Aunt Emily, barely recognizable, is a striking, elegant woman in a dark business suit. Is that
Baby Anna? What a surprise! The oversized teenager I last saw in
southern Alberta is not much in evidence. She is taller than I
remember. The sharply slanted eyes and high cheekbones, I do
remember Anna Makino. One hand is on her hip, the other high in
greeting. I wave back. The flash pops once, twice, three times.
"You made it! You actually made it!"A laughing Anna looks as
though she belongs on the cover of a business magazine.
"Finally!"
Aunt Emily's mock exasperation is rich, throaty. There is a
density in her voice. More than that, there's a density in her whole
being which makes people defer to her. She grabs my carry-on with
one hand and unceremoniously wraps my arm in the other as she nods
her introductions.
"Naomi, William Schellenberg."
"Hello, Naomi." A wide friendly grin greets me.
So this is the William Schellenberg I've been hearing about. A
wounded, talented man of the streets who has become her devoted
friend.
"William? He's demented," she'd say, "but he's brilliant. He's like
a big dog that hasn't been properly trained, you know."
I nod at him over my shoulder as I'm being dragged ahead. "Hello
and thanks," I say as he takes the cart and shambles along behind us.
William Schellenberg at first glance is an affable man, casually
dressed in baggy jeans and sweater, a reddish grey-tinged beard thick
and ragged, clearly not an overly fastidious person. He is close to Aunt
Emily's age. Early sixties perhaps. Mid fifties? It's hard to guess. Noone believes me when I tell them I am well over forty.

71

Joy Kagawa

Joy Kogawa

"You Asians," they say shaking their heads. "You don't age."
Not true of course. Two years ago when Aunt Emily officially
gasped her way over the hill and received an old age citizen's card she
said with chagrin and disbelief, "I'm a pensioner. Good grief."
My mother's younger sister is a militant nisei, a second-generation born in Canada woman of Japanese ancestry, headstrong and
outspoken. Most children of the issei that I know are outwardly gentle,
polite and quiet. Aunt Em is decidedly not.
My other aunt, Aya Obasan, raised my brother and me. She was
as different from Aunt Emily as earth is from air, as the roots of a tree
are from branches. Obasan was a typical issei: silent, indomitable, fed
by an underground stream of an ancient culture. When Obasan died,
Aunt Emily tried to persuade me to pack up my little life on the
prairies and move to be with her in Toronto.
"Just for a couple of months if you want. At least try it out," she
said. "We have to stick together now, you know. There's only you and
me and your brother left."
In the end, it wasn't so much her insistence as my own drooping
limbs that uprooted me. Life had become stagnant in southern Alberta.
"I know you'll miss the big sky but you'll grow to love the big
smog. You won't regret it," she said.
I had my qualms while flying over the city, looking down from the
tiny window at the colorless urban grid, with miles and miles of buildings like tombstones. Toronto was a gigantic cemetery.
The airport is a great grey hubbub of cars, taxis, limos, buses, and
strangers lined along the sidewalks, with carts of baggage and people
getting in and out of vehicles.
"Glad you're here, Naomi," William says.
I help him tie down the trunk of Aunt Emily's small car to keep it
from flapping open. He takes a box of books and squeezes into the
back seat with Anna. I get in the front passenger seat, jerking it
forward to give him leg room. Aunt Emily's description of him as a
large dog seems apt. English sheepdog. A hairy man. The car lurches
into the traffic.
"You okay back there, William?" asks Aunt Emily.
"I'll live," he said squirming under the heavy box on his lap.
"Naomi, I hear you two knew each other in Alberta?" His voice
has the modulated baritone of a singer or a radio announcer.

"Baby Anna?"
I tum to discover that his intense gaze and thick inquiring
eyebrows might belie my first impression of an easy-going man.
"I've known Anna Makino since the day she was born. How long
since you were in Granton, Anna? Fifteen, twenty years?" he asked.
"Something like that," answers Anna.
Anna Makino, like my brother Stephen and so many of the
brightest and best, left the prairies right after high school and never
looked back. We, who knew her as a baby, saw the hunger right from
the beginning. People often said she and Stephen would go far.
Toronto is going to take some getting used to. We are speeding
along the freeway in the fast lane, passing most of the drivers that are
also tearing along. It seems that we will get to our destinations without
an accident. We exit onto Spadina Avenue and enter the constricted
car-clogged streets of the city's core. Aunt Emily's house on the north
edge of Chinatown is a solid, square two-story brick with two
fireplaces - one upstairs that's never used. The room she offers me is
a former study, a sunny addition beside the kitchen.
"Couldn't get a pin in here last month," Aunt Emily says as we
haul my worldly belongings into the pleasant space. "I knew you
wouldn't be able to stand all my old furniture."
She gestures at the freshly painted and carpeted room. "So?"
There is a wall length closet, a south window above a radiator, a
pull down shade on a glass door that opens onto a long cedar deck that
runs out to a ramshackle garden of wildflowers enclosed by a high
fence.
Sunshine. Privacy.
"It's perfect, Aunt Em."
"It's a miracle, actually," Anna says. "You should've seen what
we carted out of this room."
"Well, that was the deal. An empty room," Aunt Emily says, her
finger printing the letters M T in the air.
The one time Aunt Emily visited me in my spartan little house in
Alberta, she was shocked at how little I owned. "You'd peel your skin
off and get rid of it if it wasn't stuck to you," She'd said. I'm quite
unlike Aunt Emily or Obasan in that one respect. I'm not a keeper or
collector of things. Perhaps it's a reaction to the clutter in which I grew
up.

72

73

Joy Kogawa

Joy Kagawa

Some of Aunt Emily's boxes sit unpacked in her new study
upstairs, a handsome oak-paneled room with a blocked off fireplace, a
floppy couch and built-in bookshelves. It's a former guest room where
William once stayed. Dozens of other boxes have been dumped in the
basement - a lifetime of letters, notes, pictures, clippings and stacks of
the familiar old mimeographed Church News that Aunt Emily had kept
over the years and was our issei minister, Nakayama-sensei's life-long
effort to keep people in touch. During and after World War II, the only
social nourishment available to thousands of isolated people were his
tiny tidbits of news - a baby born in Golden, B.C., Mrs. Oka of
Raymond, ill, the Takahashi children winning sports awards. It seems
everyone knew each other then.
Aunt Emily's theory is that people blow away in the wind like
topsoil or tumble-weeds unless their roots remain entwined.
"Newsletters are like glue," she says when she gives us the guided
tour. "Hearts can shrivel up, you know. If the will to connect withers,
whole countries shrivel up. It could happen to Canada. Do you ever
think the CBC, the railway, our health system - these kinds of things
- if they'd unravel, you know, we'd unravel. You westerners ought to
understand. Alberta and Saskatchewan farmers, for instance. And
Native people -planting com and not ploughing it all up, for heaven's
sake."
She pats a stack of boxes beside the filing cabinet in her new
study. "My junk. You probably think it's junk, Nomi, but ... "
"Well, you've got a big house here."
"It's a national treasure, Emily. These papers," William says
somberly, "Are the Japanese-Canadian Dead-Sea scrolls."
Aunt Emily laughs and claps him on the back appreciatively.
There's an ease and a collegiality William exudes that softens the edge
of Aunt Emily's bluntness.
"When I was a kid," Anna says, "I couldn't have imagined this
country unraveling. Couldn't have imagined it."
She's thumbing through one of Aunt Emily's many ever-evolving
old newsletters. Her Nisei News had started off as a weekly bulletin in
the fifties but became a monthly, then a quarterly and finally dwindled
into an occasionally. These days it's been reduced to the status of an
annual Christmas letter.
"You really think Canada's disappearing?"

Aunt Emily shrugs. "Are we disappearing? Does a JapaneseCanadian community exist? What do you think, Nomi?"
"Does it matter?"
"Oh oh," William chuckles. "Does it matter! Watch out there,
Naomi."
I should have known better than to be so flippant I think as Aunt
Emily groans and rolls her eyes. I'll need to tip-toe around these
booby-trapped questions in the future.
After Anna and William leave, Aunt Emily and I sit on the pullout bed in the living room drinking sleepy-time tea and munching
Japanese crackers and melon slices. We're looking through a pile of
albums with photographs I've never seen. Aunt Emily as a little girl
before she wore glasses, with a big floppy bow in her hair. My lovely
young mother Mari, in front the peach tree beside our house with me,
a well-wrapped baby in her arms. Stephen, my big brother, is a shy
toddler peeking out from behind Mother's skirt.
"And this one's in Stanley Park," Aunt Emily says.
Sweet Grandma Nakane sits on a picnic blanket with the newlyweds, Aya Obasan and Uncle. I remember Obasan saying once with a
laugh that she married Uncle to please Grandma Nakane. And there in
front of a lodge with their car is skinny Grandma Kato, elegant in
pearls and lace. All these, Aunt Emily says, were from our "paradise
lost" Vancouver years. It is a feast for my starving eyes.
"Oh yes, and this!" Aunt Emily says pulling out a brown-paper
parcel from the stack. "Now this is really old." It is addressed in her
strong youthful handwriting to Mr. Isamu Nakane, P.O. Box 461,
Granton, Alberta.
"You were mailing this to us?"
"Oh that was years ago. Years and years. Do you remember - no
you wouldn't remember. Open it, Nomi. It's yours."
She unwraps the crackly dry paper and hands me a rectangular
black album about one and a half hand spans long and one hand span
high, bound by a black and brown cord. It looks to be exactly the same
as Obasan's old album. Inside, inscribed in silver ink are the only two
Japanese characters I recognize the letters for 'inside' and 'root.' Naka
- ne. My surname.
"How... where did you get this?"
"It's been sitting here, waiting for you I guess. Like Grandma

74

75

Joy Kogawa

Joy Kogawa

Nakane, sitting there, just sitting there on that cot. I'll never forget it."
It was rainy as usual that day in 1942 Aunt Emily recalled. She'd
had a cold and didn't want to take her germs to the crowded exhibition
grounds in Vancouver where people were being held before getting
shipped away. But the children were sick and some elderly people
were particularly sick. She had her father's doctor-bag with her, full of
tins of stomach medicine.
"All those women, all those children, all that bewilderment. And
then - it was in the livestock building.
I recognized her from about thirty feet away and I thought, What
on earth is SHE doing here! She is supposed to be visiting in
Saltspring. And she didn't have anything with her except herfuroshiki
and, of all things, this old album. I'll never forget that stare, that blank
look. She didn't know who I was. No idea. I don't think she even knew
there was a war on."
"And she gave this to you?"
"When she finally recognized me. Yes. Furtively. She pushed it
into Papa's bag."
Dear Grandma Nakane. I barely remember her except that she
was always smiling. And now, after all these absent years, in Aunt
Emily's house a pictorial record of her family in Japan. I hardly dared
touch it.
"And you want to know why I finally didn't mail it? Why?"
Aunt Emily gestures impatiently, "Because your uncle didn't
want it. That's right. He didn't want it. When I told him I'd send it, he
said to me, he said, 'Mo ii.' You know? 'It's enough. That's what he
said."
Mo ii. The past is the past. Never mind. It's finished. It doesn't
matter. Don't bother yourself. Mo ii. He said this when I'd massaged
his shoulders enough. Now good. That's enough. Or when he didn't
want another bowl of rice. It is one of the all purpose phrases that
could be said in appreciation, in resignation, in anger or in irritation.
The photographs from Japan are almost entirely of strangers. I
don't recognize any of the relatives - at least I presume they're
relatives. Would the old woman seated in front of a large thatch-roofed
house be my great great-grandmother? She has a round moon-shaped
face like Grandma Nakane's.
Aunt Emily doesn't have a clue, though she points out a young

mother and child, saying it must be Grandma Nakane with her firstborn, Uncle Isamu, my father's half-brother. It's midnight before Aunt
Emily climbs the stairs to bed. I lie awake for hours, puzzling over the
pictures. There's a little boy who looks a little like Stephen.
I'm a tumbleweed in Toronto, thinking - a jumbled mesh of dried
roots; a long way from yesterday's yesterday; a long way from water.

76

77

r

Armand Garnet RufjiJ

I

Old House
The photographs on the walls
leave behind their ghost imprint.
At the funeral, the eulogy slipped from me.
I found the words and thought no more of it,
until now. Because you old house
root me to the very spot
I took my first step.
Nothing will ever be the same.
Old house, with your crooked windows,
sagging floors, leaking roof.
Listen.
I lay up half the night listening to you
storm and subside,
and storm again, carrying me
to bottles and flying dishes,
cracked skulls and silence.
Then, the gust of birthday candles,
fiddles and guitars.
It all came so fast, old house.
Tell me. How to let go? Hold back
the rising so I can get on with it,
walk through that door again,
and greet with hello, Yes, I am fine.
Life goes on. And it does,
except now that I have felt your current
you make me grab hold to steady myself.
As I push myself into another day
where I am some kind of divining rod,
snapping awake, echoing things
I can barely touch.

78

I

I

Dennis Saddleman

Old Missus En'owkin
I be born in the morning,
the night went to play on the other side of the world.
I be born in the late spring,
winter didn't know me she melted in the chinook wind.
I be born in Nicola Valley no one knew me. I be born. I be born last.
I was the last born, therefore, I heard no songs and there was no
dances.
Shhhh! Don't remind me. I remember the Coldwater River it flowed
away from me.
The moon. Isn't she my sister? Why does she keep her distance away
from me?
Life was a blur, my memories could not keep up to me.
The Residential School stole my childhood,
there was no love, no hugs, no kisses.
My heart longed for sunshine and love, but only loneliness stared
back at me.
Many times I wanted the raindrops to touch me,
but it seemed like no one knew that I breathed the same air as they
did.
I crawled beneath a heavy rock, I stayed there, my self esteem was
entombed in shame.
My only friends were hate and violence.
I had a lover, her name was booze.
She was strong and sometimes sweet. She was smooth and always
tempting.
On her dark side, she was wicked, evil and too much for me.
She was unfaithful, without second thoughts, she went with anyone,
so I left her.
I met a friend who was kind and patient.
I met a friend who gave me courage to change, gave me serenity to
see myself.
I met a friend his name was Mr. Sobriety.
I walked the Red Road, with no destination in mind.
On the road I went around a comer.
In the ditch I saw something lying on it's back.
I ran to it. I asked, "Hey are you okay?"
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Dennis Saddleman

Dennis Saddleman

It didn't move. It wasn't breathing. It scared me.

I gave it mouth to mouth and it revived.
I helped it to it's feet. I stared at it.
I realized it was my inner child then we walked down the road.
It was mid nineties, no it wasn't a hot summer.
It was 1995. I left my home the Nicola Valley.
I entered the Okanagan Territory.
I walked for miles and miles.
I asked myself, "What am I doing so far away from home?"
No one knows me. What am I searching for?
I was walking on the beach, I came upon an old lady.
She sat beside a fire. Humming a strange tune.
She was making something with her elegant fingers.
I stood in the darkness. Her back was facing me.
She stopped humming and she spoke.
"Do not be afraid young man.
Come closer. That's it. Warm yourself to the fire.
Have you eaten? Are you thirsty?"
I stepped out of the darkness. I inched my way towards the old lady.
The old lady reminded me of the grandmothers back home.
She was tiny. She had deep wrinkles on her brown face. She was
dressed like the four seasons.
A white winter shawl. Spring kerchief was green.
She wore a red hot summer dress and her small feet had brown
autumn moccasins.
I asked the old lady, "How did you know I was behind you?"
The old lady replied, "Ooooh! The night had thousand eyes.
I can see. I can see real good."
I asked the old lady, "Who are you?"
The old lady replied, "The people around here call me, Missus
En'owkin.
I gasped an ounce of air "Missus En' owkin. Don't I know you from
somewhere?"
Yes! Yes! I remember. You were that old woman in the street.
Old woman. Old woman all alone
Old woman. Old woman.
Begging for food, begging for warmth, begging for change.
80

Old woman got nothing because I gave you nothing. I think no one
gave you nothing.
Old woman. Old woman.
The world has turned it's back against you.
The world has kept turning and turning, the world came.
It ate away the old woman's flesh, ate away the old woman's bones,
ate away everything the old woman had.
Now, there's crumbs of flesh of delusions.
Old woman, I closed my eyes. I opened my eyes.
Old woman, I looked for you on the sidewalk. You was gone.
On the sidewalk there are empty dreams, empty hopes and empty
words for prayers.
Old woman. Old woman forgive me for not believing in you,
forgive me for not respecting my Elders."
Old Missus En'owkin stared at me for a moment.
She motioned me to sit beside her on a log.
"Young man. Young man. I believe you are sorry. Now, look up to
the sky."
I looked up. I saw a star.
The star zoomed from the east to the west.
I was awed. My mouth was open. I wondered where the star went
I asked Missus En' owkin, "What kind of star was that?"
Missus En'owkin replied, "A shooting star, young man,
a shooting star."
More curious than ever. I asked, "Who shot the shooting star?"
Missus En'owkin replied, "The Creator shot the shooting star."
Still curious. "Why did the Creator shoot the shooting star?"
Missus En' owkin stopped what she was doing. She looked at me.
"Well my young man. The Creator shot the shooting star because
people have dreams.
You understand? Listen carefully.
Sometimes, the shooting star, it goes a little ways,
that means the people goes a long ways for their dreams."
I sat on the log thinking. My thoughts swirling.
It sounds easy to have a dream. All I have to do is wish.
But! But, what happens if my dreams don't come true?
Missus En'owkin! Missus En'owkin!
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Dennis Saddleman

Dennis Saddleman

What if I can't reach my dreams? What if my dream dies?
Missus En'owkin put a finger to her lips. "Shhhh. Listen to yourself.
You are doubtful. Listen to me. Listen to me.
If you can't be in two places at once
then take one day at a time.
If you can't be a virgin
then experience your life to the fullest.
If you can't be faithful
accept your mistakes.
If you can't be God
be a universe of your imagination.
If you can't be Canadian
be yourself.
If you can't be a man or a woman
be your inner child.
If you can't be age that shows on your face
be young at heart.
Young man. Young man. Are you listening?"
Yes I was listening. I heard something from the darkness.
I heard footsteps then I saw people appear in the firelight.
There was old people, young people and people with children.
I asked Missus En'owkin, "Who are these people?"
Missus En' owkin stood up, and went to the people.
She shook hands with them, she hugged them and kissed them.
Missus En' owkin turned to me. "These people are my children, they
came from far and near.
I taught my children love, we are a big family.
In the family, we are sons and daughters, brothers and sisters.
We are grandparents, uncles, aunts, husbands and wives.
I taught my children to be writers, to be artists and to be storytellers.
You my young man I want you to remember something.
I want you to visualize yourself in your mother's womb. Hear your
mother's voice."
My baby! My baby!
Soon you will be born.
Soon you will enter this world.
Oh, baby baby. I'm afraid.
82

I'm afraid to bring you into this world.
There's lots of hate, there's lots of violence.
Oh baby I can't bring you into this world, I'd be killing you.
Oh baby! Baby what shall I do?
Young man. Young man. Your mother loved you.
She cared for you. She was afraid of this violent world. She made a
choice.
You be born in the morning. You be born in late spring. You be born
in Nicola Valley.
Young man. You thought there was no songs, no dances.
I was told from the spirits of our ancestors, your mother was happy
to have a son.
Your mother sang her heart out. Your mother danced with her pride.
Young man. Young man. I've been waiting for you for a long time.
I knew someday, you would show up. I have a gift for you.
My elegant fingers was doing some weaving.
I weaved your dreams, your hopes and lot of prayers.
I weaved your heart, your mind and your spirit.
"Here, take my gift young man.
From this day on, I will call you my grandson."
I took the gift from Missus En' owkin.
Tears of love rolled down my cheeks.
I gave Missus En'owkin a big hug.
As we hugged, Missus En'owkin spoke to me in a low tone.
"Some days are not born, some days will come and they will go.
What days you asked. Your childhood days, your Residential School
days
Your drinking days and your healing days.
Days will come and they will go.
Days will go far into the past, far into your memories and they may
never return.
Some day my grandson, you will be a storyteller.
Some day you will return, do not tell me goodbye."
I watched Missus En' owkin, she sat on the log, her elegant fingers
began weaving again.
I thought she wass weaving a gift for someone else.
I went home to Nicola Valley.
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Barbara Helen Hill

Dennis Saddleman

I became an Indian book.
I have stories of long ago, stories of today and stories of tomorrow.
I'm an Indian book I sat on the bookshelf.
I'm an Indian book many people came
and they read my stories over and over and over.

84

En'owkin Centre

My Days in Nerd Land
I don't really know if I was a nerd in high school. I never thought of
myself as one because I didn't spend all my time doing homework or
studying. I did, however, spend a lot of time reading. I collected books
and had them in boxes in my closet. When I wanted to get away from
my siblings in the winter I would go behind the boxes and set up a
reading space complete with pillow and blanket. In the summer when
I wasn't helping Mom with young ones I'd find a place under a tree,
or up in a tree, with my book. Forty years later I went back to school
full time and became a nerd.
I made a promise to myself (I guess subconsciously) that I
wouldn't go to school after high school unless I could study what I
wanted. I found that school in the En'owkin Centre. The En'owkin
Centre provided me with courses in creative writing and fine arts and
helped me explore more of myself than I'd ever dreamed. I was
allowed to write and read and do only that. There was no calculus or
biology or Latin. There were ways to explore different mediums in
fine art. I even got to take two English courses that helped me to get
over a revulsion around grammar.
My reason for going to the En'owkin Centre was to find a way to
get my book published. I'd been a counsellor in addictions and abuses
for over seventeen years and wanted to write and publish this book. I
gave Jeannette Armstrong the rough first draft. She took it to Theytus
and they said they'd publish it. I went to school to publish the book
and they taught me vision. I knew how to write as my teacher Beth
Cuthand told me, I just didn't know how to envision it. Jeannette
helped with that. The writing courses were not just fiction; they
included poetry and non-fiction as well as screen and script writing. I
swore to my English teacher Gerry William that I wasn't going to
write essays and that I hated writing essays. When the next issue of
Gatherings came out he emailed me and said, "I see you're writing
essays Helen." He brought some laughter into a troubling day.
My book Shaking the Rattle: Healing the Trauma of Colonization
published by Theytus in 1996, the year of my graduation from
En'owkin, was my main focus at school. I had already
written the non-fiction pieces and had to learn how to tighten them up
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Barhara Helen Hill

Barbara Helen Hill

and give them my voice. I had to learn about fiction writing and
poetry. I'd never liked poetry since high school English classes. But
these teachers and students helped me to appreciate poetry and to write
it as well.
Although I had a book deadline, that didn't stop me from appreciating the fine talent and artistic ability that surrounded me while I
worked. Oh, so many fine writers and wonderful artists. There was one
girl - Anna Sewell - who just fascinated me with her mind. She came
up with a performance piece that I still want permission to write about.
It was awesome. Crow, crows and more crows. She gave us a hard
time in class because she wouldn't write things down, she let them
spill out on stage. We had to follow her thinking without knowing
what she was thinking and all the time thinking we weren't really
seeing what we thought we were seeing.
Steven painted a couch. Not just whitewash but really painted a
picture on the couch. I think that show was called "Fish Head Soup."
I tried my hand at carving and jewellery making. I liked the watercolour work more than oil painting. There wasn't any space to use the
oils in class so I did those at my apartment. I was part of the art show
in the Okanagan gallery with the students and staff and had some work
in a few other shows. My art piece Self Portrait turned out to be the
cover for my book and the first piece of art that I sold. At the end of
my final year I sold a few more pieces. One set of three watercolours
were sold to, I believe, the Osoyoos Band in the Okanagan.
There were many adventures to go on while at En'owkin. I
attended a couple of book launches and while at a filming of a show
for Vision TV with Dorothy Christian, found what it was like to have
an obsession that turns into a piece of art.
We were filming for the launch of In Honour of our
Grandmothers. I saw an art piece by George Littlechild. That picture
kept going around in my mind, so much that it woke me up in the
middle of the night. I had to get out of bed to jot down the words
"Never Again" which became a poem in my book. I wrote that for
George Littlechild.
I watched people come and go like the leaves on water. Some left
never to return to the En' owkin. Some returned acting different. Aaron
left, came back for a visit but didn't stay. It wasn't for him, I guess.
Whenever you went to the office there was someone new to meet or

greet. That was the beauty of the En' owkin, no one was a stranger. We
were always having a potluck for some reason or other. When
someone new came into town or an alumni returned for a visit we had
another potluck.
Donna Goodleaf, the non-fiction teacher while I was at the
En'owkin, was a blast. I had so much fun with her. We had serious
conversations and yet, there was this elfish/pixyish type of spirit
within her that seemed to bubble out infectiously. I'd feel like a kid
again. She taught me about feminism. I'd never thought about it at all
because of the Haudenosaunee matrilineal thought and philosophy. We
never needed to fight for equality in the old days. She wrote great
poems about her mom and the other women in her community and had
a wonderful way of reading those poems that made you want to go and
visit her mom. Being a Mohawk from Kanawake she knew many of
the people I knew or knew of them. She also knew about bologna and
potato chip sandwiches. I often wonder where she went.
Donna was the maid of honour when two En'owkin Teachers,
Beth and Gerry, got married. We had three Mohawk women do a
performance piece at their ceremony (actually, we read a poem). The
students decorated our little hall and the community helped with food.
It was a family affair. We had fun and boy, did I get tired. I kept forgetting that I was older than some of the teachers and I was definitely
older than the students. But I was a student and to me that meant I
could do what they did ... almost.
One of the things that I learned about in my past years (not only
at En'owkin) was the connection between creativity, sexuality and
spirituality. Those into chakras will know this area. Working in close
proximity with artists and writers gave us the energy to create. It is a
spiritual connection and it sometimes worked into a sexual connection. When I arrived, a couple of the girls were already pregnant.
When I left, a few more were pregnant. That is not a bad thing. The
spirituality, creativity, and the sexuality were working together. When
I look back at my days at En' owkin I can say that I birthed a book
while others birthed babies.
I came away from the school with many wonderful memories. I
felt like a family member within Jeannette's family. I felt like a
community member in Penticton, both on the reserve and off. I
protested the destruction of the natural hunting grounds and helped

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Barbara Helen Hill

Wit George

blockade the road. I learned that night, standing in the freezing cold
that it is better to protest with pen and paper. I went picking berries and'
ate traditional foods at ceremonies. I went to funerals and birthday
parties. I travelled to some wonderful places and met many wonderful
people. I had my first experience at a casino in the state of Washington
and learned after a roll of nickels that I don't like casinos. I actually
knew that before but went to be polite because after that we went for
Mexican food, another passion of mine.
All the beauty, family and adventure aside, I also became the nerd
of the school and constantly did my homework. I walked to school
earring many books. I read a lot and did what I was instructed. I
enjoyed the artistic experience and found ways of expressing myself
besides my writing. I also learned why most artists are so critical of
their work. Perception. I saw beauty in the work of a student named
Cheryl who kept telling me the work wasn't good enough. I now know
what that means since I started to create and show more of my own art.
As I sit here in my home working on art pieces and writing pieces
I have fond memories of school. Getting a Masters Degree in
American Studies at the University of Buffalo was fun and interesting
but nowhere near my experience at En'owkin.
I went to visit the En'owkin school in 1999. It has changed not,
only location but, structurally as well. The dream of Jeannette and her
community members has evolved into reality. The school is now in
their home community, not in the little town. The people are still there,
warm and friendly, to welcome you when you go in the door.
I want to go back. Not to stay but to have a reunion, to touch base
with the men and women and see where we are and where we have
come from. I'm at Six Nations being part of the Six Nations Writers. I
have my own publishing business now Shaking the Rattle will be back
in print. I'm an artist and getting ready for a show with three other
women in November. Many wonderful things have gone on in my life
since graduating. I've learned so much with the tools I received from
En'owkin. I've emerged from student to writer and artist. For that I
must thank all the students and teachers that were part of my life for
two wonderful years from 1994 to 1996.

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En'owkin
family away
from home
is En'owkin
centered in creativity
spirituality and culture
with a pen in my hand
I went there
with a desire
to learn
to write
and I did learn
to live breathe
indigenous rhythm
living in the Okanagan
was an honor
I respect and love
my En' owkin family

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Wil George
Wil George

Raven's Take on the Okanagan
The Okanagan,
Raven says
she's hot.
Gorgeous valleys,
sensual and serene.
Beautiful lakes
with waves
calm inspiring
or strong determined.
Sage graces
the earth.

community
with our hands open
we bring cedar to the flame
singing praying learning
community is an ancient rhythm

You'll have to excuse Raven,
he is rather ambiguous
about whether he referred
to the Okanagan landscape
or Okanagan women.
For his defense,
he says
the Okanagan women,
they are beautiful
because their land is beautiful.
Raven loves the Okanagan

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91

Leanne Flett Kruger

Leanne Flett Kruger

Reunite
Together they gathered, reuniting for the first time since the original
time they had all come together. In the forest, they gathered and
memories resurfaced. In the open gathering space in the forest the sun
shone on the soft, wild grass and budding spring sunflowers.
Beaver was there first, eagerly awaiting everyone's arrival. He
paced in a circle dragging his heavy tail on the ground, flattening the
grass to make a spot for everyone to dance.
Magpie flew in and noisily started chattering. "I knew you'd be
the first one here, Beaver. I'm going to look around and come back
when things get more exciting." She flew off squawking and muttering
to herself.
Chipmunk arrived and tiptoed across the flattened grass toward
Beaver to touch noses with him. "I don't want to mess your lovely
pattern," Chipmunk gently squeaked.
"So good to see you old friend," laughed Beaver, "It has been a
long time."
Branches began snapping and breaking to the left of the circle.
"Tansi. Long time," barreled a voice through the dense forest.
Beaver and Chipmunk turned toward the voice. It was
Wesakechak. Just as he was about to enter the circle, Wesakechak was
startled from behind as a sneaky coyote jumped at his heels.
"Ha-ha, silly one. I've been following you for days and you didn't
even sense me. Ha-ha, he-he ... "
Coyote rolled on the ground in laughter. Wesakechak frowned as
Beaver and Chipmunk laughed with Coyote.
"Wait until Napi gets here, you'll get paybacks." Wesakechak said
scornfully.
He paused then broke into laughter too. He was patting his old
friend Coyote on the back when a deer nervously poked her head
through the trees. There was a fawn with her, who tried to hide behind
her legs but bravely peered out.
"Look," cried Beaver, "Deer had her baby. She is beautiful."
They all looked over and the fawn hid behind Deer's legs.
"Awww, ever cute," said Coyote.
Everyone agreed with sounds of "Mmm-hhhm" and nodded their
heads.
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I
I

I
I
I

i

I
I
I
i
I
I
I
I

l

A large Buck marched out which Deer and Fawn followed into the
circle.
Soon everyone began to arrive. From the East, North, South and
West, everyone came together. Nanabush from the East, Salmon,
Buffalo, Two Spirits, Wolf, Quail, Raven, Gramma Kookum Moon,
Sister Stars, Roots and Berries, Swan, Whale, Frog with her tadpoles,
Magpie, Spider, Owl, Bear, Snake, Corn Woman, Beetle, Grouse,
Nauq from the North, Walrus, Wolverine, Shamans, Eagle, Mountain
Lion, Wesakechak and many others. The visiting began. West Coast
Raven sat with cousin Prairie Crow. Sturgeon, who had grown to a
glorious size, told Okanagan Lake that he was thinking of making her
his home. They had returned to the original place where they had all
met - En' owkin.
The earth shook as Grizzly Bear stood high on her hind legs and
began to speak. Everyone hushed except Coyote who was still snickering and teasing Wesakechak. Grizzly Bear hunched down to stare
Coyote right in the eyes. Coyote's fur ruffled in the hot air blowing
from Bear's huge nostrils. Coyote shrugged his head between his
shoulders with his ears drawn back and his tail curled between his
legs. Bear stood again.
"How wonderful to have everyone together again." She raised her
arms to the sky. "I remember when we were all together the first time.
I learned much from every one of you. You all shared your knowledge
and insight. And now we are reunited."
"Mmm-hhhm," There were many murmurs of agreement. Bear
finished his speach and other spoke and reminised of their shared time
together at En' owkin.
Later Wesakechak made a large fire and began to tell stories.
Prairie Grouse danced while Moon drummed a Spirit Song. Darkness
filled the night sky and the fire glowed with great intensity. Coyote
walked toward the outhouse, continually looking back over his
shoulder into the darkness. A twig snapped under his paw and he sprug
like a spring into the air. He went into a fast trot with his tail between
his legs. He didn't see Napi and Wesackechak sneaking through the
woods behind him.
When Napi and Wesackechak reached the outhouse door they
could barely contain their laughter. They flung the door open and
howled in voices so loud that the treetops quivered. Coyote yipped and
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Leanne Flett Kruger

Leanne Flett Kruger

sprung into the air with his eyes rolled back in his head. He fell down
the hole in the outhouse. Splash. "Gross!" yelled Coyote from within
the hole. "Help! Get me out of here!" He hollered and squealed. Nap;
and Weesackecha laughed and tossed a rope down the hole.
Magpie heard all the commotion and came flying to see what had
happened. Napi and Weesackecha were holding their bellies, laughing
and rolling on the ground. Magpie laughed too. She nattered, "Now
you two are going to be sorry._ You_ all should just ~top. This is going
to go on and on and someone 1s gomg to end up with hurt feelings or
worse. And don't be getting me involved in this nonsense. I can just
see it now... one of these times ... " On and on Magpie nattered until no
one listened at all.
Coyote spent an hour in the creek, gagging and sneezing and
continually dunking himself in the water. He got out and shook
himself over and over until he was dizzy but almost dry. He held his
head high with his nose up in the air as he walked back into the
Gathering circle. He stood in the center of the circle and announced to
everyone that when he fell in the outhouse he wasn't scared and that
he did it intentionally to make his fur shiny.
"Mmmm-hhmm," everyone nodded as though they agreed, but
chuckles were still heard amongst the crowd.
Magpie squawked and complained about the smell. Coyote kept
interrupting as she squawked until she finally got so fed up that she
flew to the other side of the gathering where she continued to
complain.
The Elders said a prayer that made everyone's hearts and spirits
so full they all began to float; even big Sturgeon and Walrus floated in
the night sky.
"This is beautiful," said Grizzly Bear, "Look at what we all can
do when we put out spirit creative energy together."
Frog blew bubbles out of her mouth that floated up into the
atmosphere. Being afraid of heights, Coyote held his eyes shut tightly.
The fire's glow reached all the way to the treetops where everyone
floated and glided. The night sky glowed with a grey luminescence
that cast a silver shadow upon their furs, scales, skins and feathers.
After a time, they floated back to the gathering circle. Everyone joined
hands then drummed and sang the Okanagan Honor Song. More
stories were shared that night.

Wesakechak told the story of an adventure with Two Spirit and
boW they got stuck on the side of a mountain and became covered in
cactus needles. Goose spoke of Blue Bird's song which was so
beautiful, that all he could do was sit and weep while she sang.
In reuniting they realized that although they were still the same,
they bad also changed. They had grown, transformed and developed
into more enlightened beings. They had expanded original knowledge
by sharing it with one another.
A place they all came to - En' owkin. Some came to find healing,
some came to create, some didn't know why they came until they
arrived. With mountains to the East and West and lakes to the North
and South, the valley cradled them in safety like a mother holding a
baby. Many left, some stayed. Sturgeon stayed deep in the darkness
depths of Okanagan Lake. And today, people tell stories of a great
creature in the lake.

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Sharron Proulx

Caught in Fear

There's this certain crow, a game-boy rider he calls himself. Small
spotted eagle sees him tailing among the others, and before she
knows it, he's on her back, literally, holding on for his life. Tums out
he's afraid of heights, though he only admits this in so many words.
What he says is, crow at one time was pure white, with the sweetest
singing voice of all the birds. Like many others, he volunteers to
steal fire from the people who live east of grandmother moon, but,
being a perfectionist, he takes so long hovering over the fire - trying
to find the perfect piece to steal - his white feathers smoke to black.
When he returns to his village he tries to sing the first rap tune, but
he'd inhaled so much smoke that out comes a raw, caw, caw, and his
flight pattern's been off ever since.

Sharron Proulx

the two women meet and grow
in power
in strength
in love
while most young men
respect the gifted ones
who see as true women
who see as true men
there are two young men who
fancy themselves to be
alluring appealing charming
tempting interesting fascinating
attracting captivating
beyond splendor
and follow the women
in secret

Now this in-crowd crow says a basket was left at the side of the road
for the woman, and since he gave his maw-caws his word in return
for breakfast in bed all next week, he'd like to keep his distance.
She'll need what's in there, thinks the crow, so small spotted eagle
agrees to set down the basket next to the lodge. She is here to gift a
story, that small spotted eagle tells him, and she asks this crazy crow
could he unhook himself from her back now and leave her feathers
he's toe-combed from her back, leave them in the basket for the
woman, she'll need those too, stay and play awhile, hey?, and so
goes this story.

so that even after the elders tell them
no
let these women be
the men persist
and in time are forbidden
even
to speak
to be
in their company

it is said that once
long time ago
two extraordinary young women
after dreams of future days
of prayer songs
of medicine ways
and loving only women
refuse marriage
to any man

then one fine summer day
all hush and hush
far into the woods
where the women peel
and collect tree bark
and bathe themselves nearby
the men follow
in the water the women
express their love

after many years
while still young
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Sharron Proulx

Dawn Russell

their passions sweet
and the men are witness to this
moment movement mystery time
when one of the women
the older one
transforms but half her beauty
into the needle of a pine
and that half
floats on the water
to the mouth of her companion
the younger one
who swallows
and soon after becomes
big with child
a green-eyed child whose name
soft-shell turtle woman
remains in song

Quarter Indian
s:56 p.m. Friday.
I don't want you to get worried but I've packed up Princess and her
stuff and we've checked into a hotel. Luckily, she's asleep. Certain
people are saying I'm a narcotics officer and a rat. I don't need to put
up with that. We're just gonna lay low for the night. We've got full
cable, so we'll just watch t.v.
J still haven't slept. I partied my ass off last night with a hottie from
Burnaby. We gotta get this office shit done so I can rest. How come you
never told me there were so many good lookin Indians at your work?
Man, I just gotta get some sleep. Are we going for lunch first?

12:56 a.m. Saturday.
I'm a police officer with the Sardis RCMP. I'm at the hospital with
your daughter and ex-husband. It seems as though he's suffering from
some sort of psychotic episode involving paranoid delusions and
voices. Does he have a history of drug use? If you give me directions
to your house, I'll try to get authorization to drive her home. I'll call
you back.

and so it is said
that from the water
they obtained
their spirit power
And so it is said, too, not too long ago, when the forests are still
strong, city doctors kill a medicine woman, calling her a witch,
because they are in a jealous rage after she heals a woman they
aren't able to heal. She is so powerful, she uses only water, bathes
and prays for the woman for four days and brings her back to full
health. This is how this story is told to small spotted eagle by her
grandmother, _who is told by her grandmother, who is told by her
grandmother 1s how small spotted eagle is told in her language.

Give me the business information that has to be sorted out, then you
can get started on the tax forms. I'll separate any tax papers so you'll
have something to work with. Was this CD in with the pile ofpapers?
I wonder what's on it? I'll check it in case there are past tax forms or
business files from previous years.
2:10 a.m. Saturday:
Sorry to disturb you at this hour. I'm the after-hours clerk for the
prov_inci~l Ministry of Children and Families. Do you have any
relatives m the area that could come and pick-up your daughter? If not,
we might try to acquire taxi service for you. I will call you right back.
~h, i~ 's just porn. It looks like some of this is late seventies, early
ezghtzes. Head bands and leg warmers. Nothing worse than outdated
porn. I gotta change the format just to see files, I don't need a slide
show. Not all of it's porn though. Hey, there are movies on this disc too.

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Dawn Russell

I'm never gonna get any sleep, am I?
2:35 a.m. Saturday:
Hello again. I'm just calling to let you know that we've contacted a
taxi company and they're sending one for you now. You'll be driven
to the Sardis police station to pick up your daughter. The ministry will
cover the bill.
Some of these are personal photos. Like that one. Isn't that your
friends kid? Why would there be personal photos with old porn? Let's
see what's on those movies. Wait a minute ... those are kids! Oh, sick
man. Some of this is kiddie porn. Didn't that girl used to live in your
complex?
3:05 a.m. Saturday.
Hey. Are you almost here? I was wondering if you could do me a
favor. I don't really feel safe here in Sardis because of those people.
Can I get a lift with you in the taxi? Maybe stay with you for a couple
of days until I can get a new place. Or can you drive me to my friend's
place in New West? I can't stay here. Think about it and let me know.
I'm so glad you could get here.
We weren't really sure what to do with this. I was looking for business
files and came across the pictures. Sure enough, these ones are pretty
gross. There's this woman ... but look there. That's her daughter! We
know that guy in the picture. When she was five, he must have been in
his mid-thirties.

I
I

I

I
I
I

I

I
I
I

I
I

I
I
I

3:30 a.m. Saturday.
Hello. I'm the officer you spoke with earlier. Your daughter seems to
be fine. She has not been harmed in any way but I don't think she's
had dinner. Although your ex-husband feels like he's in serious danger,
we don't perceive any immediate threat to himself or others. Here are
your daughters bags. We escorted them back to the hotel to claim their
things. We're glad you have your daughter back.
Can you believe this! I'm in a North Vancouver RCMP detachment waiting to give my statement and my ex calls. Says he's being
called names. Of all the nerve. He checked himself and my kid into a
hotel to hide out. He just doesn't get it. He's a parent too. He has
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I
I

I
I
I
I

I

Dawn Russell

responsibilities equal to mine. He's wimping out. He'll try and send
her back early by getting sick or something. I told him, "Too bad. Deal
with it."
4:10 a.m. Saturday.
Yeah. I just thought I'd leave a message. I got Punkin back. The cabbie
bought me a coffee at Timmy's. No I haven't been to sleep yet. It's
been 45 hours. I'll call you when I wake up. Punkin hasn't slept either,
I'm sure she'll sleep in. We're driving along the Trans-Canada
highway from Sardis to Surrey in a taxi paid for by the Ministry of
Children and Families shortly after four a.m. on a Saturday. I'm
drinking a coffee paid for by a sympathetic cabbie, looking at the
daughter I rescued from my ex-husband and his self-centred, irresponsible lifestyle. All this following finding evidence and giving a statement in connection with violations against kids.
Punkin looks up at me and asks, "Mom. Am I a quarter Indian?"
"Yes, baby you sure are," I replied.
"So when I grow up am I gonna be a toonie Indian?"

Facilitator David Rattray opened an education conference
workshop with one simple statement: "We cannot heal our
society until we stop treating our children like sexual
pincushions."
3:00 p.m. Tuesday.
A constable in the Sex Crimes Unit called and informed me that the
RCMP have not filed charges. They interviewed the young girl, who
told the officers that she wasn't in the photos. After interviewing the
mother and the suspect, they have determined the only charge they're
investigating is possession of child pornography. Dismayed, I say,
"Well, if that wasn't her, then who? We know that's him. My neighbor
lived with the suspect in the apartment depicted in those photos. She
bought him the blanket they're lying on and that's even her sewing
machine in the background." The constable seems caught off-guard by
that response. She admitted that she didn't know about the personal
photos having thought they were all downloaded off the internet. She
also confessed to not having read our statements. She had based the
interview questions solely on the overview of the initial investigating
101

Dawn Russell
Tracey Jack

officer!

Spring Songs, Summer Memories

My neighbor went to the police station equipped with persona/
pictures supporting the identification of the people and places on the
disc. The investigation continues to probe into the contents of the CD.
My neighbor is going on holidays soon and hopefully will be able to
get on with her life. I'll be staying home with my daughter watching
helplessly as she plays hoping I can save her from the pain I saw in the
eyes of those violated children, disappointed that my struggle is
hampered by her fathers poor personal choices. I will tell her stories
of quarters, loonies and Indians.

I can still hear her feathery voice
echoing
tiny whispers.
Silky words threading
and
weaving extrusive threads
Brushing my heart.
Delicately whisking buttery hair.
"Wheest, wheest, wheest."
Nut-brown eyes soft and glittery
"Do you want me to chooch you too?"
Green giddy eyes! "You gotta choose me too!"
Whistling songbird scooping us up
Note by note
Twin eyes gleaming
Illuminating the dusty kitchen.
Baby bugs
hopping
on the floor.
Bright pretty red polka dot bandana
Wrapped delicately around her head
Sweaty hands
Yellow wooden handled straw broom.
Tiny puffs of dust
dancing on the wooden floor.
exquisite chirping spring chickadee.
Spoons banging on the floor
"un hun a way ho. un hun a way ho!"
Tiny lungs
bolting out verses ...
GETTING dizzy!
Stick-game melody
So graceful
At what seemed an eternity

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Brent Peacock-Cohen

Rasunah Marsden

Home Drum Beat

Grandmother Stories

Mother's humanitarian rythmn
calls to us
drawing us back
where the land meets the soul
and we have metaphysical understanding

One day I will tell all of the stories but not yet. I can feel them
wriggling around under the blanket of my skin, like children. They are
waiting to be tamed but at the moment they are wild and free, and that
is part of the reason I don't like to say too much about them, because
I remember those days when I was also wild and free.
If you look around you, you will see that many people are like
that, and say very little, even though they are always watching. All the
watchers know who each other is. There are a couple of societies like
that - the watchers and the non-watchers, who are often the loud
talkers and the exhibitionists. We don't mind who they are. Quite
often, we are forced to mix, but on the other hand, we naturally gravitate into one of the two societies. My understanding of these things is
very old.
It's true that some ofus old ones look around for young ones who
can fill our boots. We might not say anything, but to ourselves we will
say, "Oh, there's a good one. He looks like he'll be able to make it,"
and then we'll be sure to let that young one know we're keeping our
eyes on him and we are proud of him. So automatically at a very
young age, even as young as 3 years old, he will already begin to be
alert about what he's doing and how he's doing it.
The watching society is the mysterious one. We never talk about
it, but we make secret plans to meet each other. Sometimes it's only to
stand in a doorway and see the other one across the room. My own
father did this to me many times. It's just to give evidence that we are
conscious about them. Of course, they can retaliate, but normally the
silence is not broken. We know what's going on when suddenly,
perhaps when getting food from the table for instance, suddenly we are
in the same line-up, and one of us ladles some food onto the other's
dish. Or we smile and say something like, "Oh, you forgot your
purse," or whatever. So it is little things like that which are the way we
'prove' that our watching is shared.
I was going to say also, these people never brag about what they
do, even if they do it very well. Usually you never hear them do that.
Someone will say, "Oh, I heard you made such-and-such an achievement" and it will be at those times that we answer something like,
"Well, it was just an accident that I had the time to get it done." The

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Rasunah Marsden

meaning is that we do not wish to pay attention to things like that
because they are already in the past, and to speak further about these
things is a minor irritation. For instance, someone will go out and be
very successful at hunting and feed a lot of people but at the same
time, you will never know when he did this, but you find he has
already done it. Then the people say, "Oh, whose meat is this I am
eating?"
"Oh, it's from the Edgar's (family)" and that's about all you will
know, because if you want to find out about how he did that, you'll just
have to hang around with him for awhile and spend some time with
him.
I was given a gift sometime when I was a young woman. My
great-grandmother medicine woman appeared to me and told me her
visions were jumping to me, meaning that they skipped a generation,
maybe because my father was married to a French woman. Anyhow it
was like something poured down my throat, so I can feel that water in
my body acting up every-once-in-awhile. I had a strange woman's
attitude to things which I suppose one could call individualistic, that
is, my ideas didn't come from anywhere else, and the ones that did,
mostly seemed to bounce off me. Many times in my life I wondered
where I got my ideas about who I was, from, or about what marriage
and a good husband was, about what babies were feeling, and things
like that.
It was as though I never had to ask anyone what was going on, or
I always felt silly when I did, as though I would know those answers
if I just kept quiet instead. So a lot of my life was experimental and a
weaving in and out of realities of all kinds which people spoke about,
although I never had much to do with any of those realities.
Beliefs to me were something transitory, not because they were
for other people, but because for me I only felt interested in them for
a little while at a time. At first I thought this was some kind of flaw in
myself, but eventually I could see that it wasn't, because there was a
better way of looking at the things, which I was ignoring. The way
things were,just so often seemed a result of time and place, even if the
weight of the belief was centuries old. Most of my life I spent listening
to everyone else and what mattered to them. I always felt comfortable
doing this. I had things to say but that could wait. Now that I am older,
I begin to feel responsible to share what I think. But I might not be old

enough yet, so it's better to keep some of those 'half-baked' ideas to
myself. In some way, we are never old enough to do anything, but this
does not exempt us from being responsible.
Well, what that grandmother gave me was shocking and I can still
taste the shock. I have gotten over not being attached to beliefs, but not
quite sure I have gotten over what she gave me. Sometimes I think
she's still alive, but I never met her or heard her voice. I think this
when those visions she gave me wake up, stretch, and yawn. They do
this when I see a piece of them outside myself, sometimes in
someone's eyes, for instance. Usually they don't know they are
reminding me of some visions I have had. Something wriggles out of
their eyes and escapes very quickly, and a shadow passes over my
eyes, and even though I pretend I have not seen anything, I have
learned not to ignore these flashes of insight into their ancestors'
worlds.
Other times, something happens in the way they move. The limbs
make an arc, which freeze-frames itself in my mind, and it is in that
instance that I "know" who they are, inside. Mostly I live with the
insides of people but I have gotten used to the fact that most people
don't do things that way. Rarely. So then when they ask something
like, "So did you think what I said to those people was alright?" I'll
answer, "Of course it was," because I know that all those words don't
have much to do with what's really going on.

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Rasunah Marsden

Rasunah Marsden

rmother
I

Eagle Feather Song

sings of the young women
whose feet were so swift

yesterday two eagle feathers came to me
I am white and I am red
I can sing of those things
no one taught
from the quiet, their voices still reach me

I
j

,

I

I am not male or female
I am white and red

mother sings of the elders
who brought you this song,
of the history
which brought you here
carry these feathers
for your grandfathers, grandmothers
and all your relations

in the old days in woodlands
running above the ground
brings everything from the past
into the present
when the feathers came to me
I heard the spirits sing again

I

I

let others speak of native peoples
yet hear no voices like these
I am white and I am red

I

I
I

before these hills and rivers sprang
tell them we knew where to live
and who we were
and how it was
in our woodland homes
tell them you know where to live
and who you are
and how it is
in your eagle homes

I

when the line of our ancestors
is stretched
the white shears away
like tufts on a thistle
before I sip that power

I

I
I

I am red
for no reason the landscape
opens up and reveals
long ago times and rivers of song.
mother sings of the young men
whose hearts sang like birds
in their chests

I
I
I
I

I
I

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Rasunah Marsden

Rasunah Marsden

Testimony: Grandma
this is what an old man who drinks and smokes his entire life smells
like, grandma
this is what old men must smell like before they die, grandma,
almost all the same, probably,
this is how they walk when they are old grandma,
I know you wondered about those things, they were all a mystery,
I know you wished your own mother could have lived as long as
you,
I know you wondered why and how you lived so long,
this is what they do when they are angry, grandma,
they throw fits and talk venomously,
they yank the intravenous tubes out and attempt
to run out the hospital doors, they don't want to die amongst
strangers
they want to be where you are grandma, smelling of roses,
where your fingers still embroider.
this is what an old man whose brothers were lost in the war drums
like, grandma,
he comes and goes as he. pleases and his children fight against his
savagery,
into her old age your daughter loses the memory of all the painful
years,
she forgets the name of her first-born, grandma
and his only son vanishes before our eyes, at the bottom of the stairs,
in front of the widow with the widow's chin
'
remarrying two more men like him who die before their time
'

this is what an old man who spent seventy-five blustery northern
Canadian winters looks like, grandma,
walking the ties, checking the brakes, with breath like dragon-smoke
frozen over an icy sea of crystals,
face and hands of tanned red leather, unlike the hands of your own
saintly father and mother
arching gracefully round your thin shoulders, holy born
holy born woman I have lived so long your bones have turned to
dust, grandma,
in my dreams I seek the final resting place no one dared to touch, I
watched them run away,
your only one, curious ears straining
heard your body rustle in its shroud one last time beside the pew,
even the chubby priest could not linger so long in your radiance,
the embalmer's eyes, still watering like your lost one's eyes,
lingering with grief over your unimpeachable grace, drowned in
ceremony, aghast
and wandering like a ghost amongst strangers,
your son-in-law's silence a river of testimony
to every steaming glass of tea you ever made,
his shadow today, a testimony to the indelible fabric you were woven
of, grandma

his other daughter, nipped in the bud at six months, you mourned
her sweet watery eyes your whole life, grandma,
with every silken stitch of doll's clothes you made for her so many dolls, they spilled overtop the upright glass display case,
your grandchildren's fingers eagerly smudged, swooning over
brightly colored ribbons

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~

Brenda Prince

Brenda Prince

I Anticipation
line? up. Another group had just arrived and were setting up.
was thick in the early evening air. The whipman in the

Grand Entry
"Oh ... my.... God. What the hell is he doing here?" Sherry said more to
herself than to Karen who was sitting beside her at the top of a small
baseball bleacher.
"Who? Who?" Karen asked while she chewed a mouthful of
bannock.
"His Royal Highness, Wannabe Chief Premier Poops-A-Lot.
Shhh. Don't look and don't turn around. He's right behind us. Just wait
till he walks by."
Karen chewed slowly so she wouldn't choke and miss finding out
who this illustrious person was. "Okay, look to your left but don't
make it obvious. There, in the black leather jacket," Sherry indicated
by pointing her lips.
"What, Who? I don't know who? Is it Elvis?"
"No. It's Todd Brown."
"Who?"
"Todd Brown. He's the head of the Urban Aboriginal Coalition.
He wants to be head honcho of everything. Him and his little band of
cronies."
"Ahhh," Karen said, not really caring.
"It's gotta be an election somewhere because I've never seen him
at a pow-wow," Sherry continued. "And if I see him kissing papooses
I'm going to upchuck my bannock."
"Gee, Sherry. We're at a pow-wow. You shouldn't be talking bad
about other people at a pow-wow."
"Yeah well he shouldn't be doing bad anywhere. He's just a
power-hungry self-centred unqualified idiot."
"Holuh, Sherry. You better go to a meeting or a sweat."
"He's the one who should be sweating. He plays dirty politics and
if his nose were any browner you'd say it was a piece of poo."
Karen rolled her eyes as the announcer spoke.
"Okay people, five minutes to grand entry!"
Soon, the line up of dancers and dignitaries at the east entrance of
the pow-wow arena were ready. Small baseball bleachers and lawn
chairs of various types for the dancers and their families formed a
circle. In front of the announcer stand sat the Host Drum of eight men
sitting around a big drum. To the right were eight more drum groups

center of the circle gave one last look around then waved a stick in a
small circle in the air.
The announcer spoke, "Hokah! Everyone please rise. It's powwow time! Grand entry time!"
The host drum started the grand entry song. People stood up and
the flag and staff carriers danced into the circle. They were followed
by a few Native Veterans and then the head woman and man dancers.
Then the order of dancers from Golden Age men, Golden Age women,
men's traditional, women's traditional and on, down to the tiny tots.
Karen was smiling and enjoying the procession of bright colors,
magnificent creative outfits of beads, shiny jingles and feathers.
Sherry, looking at each dancer's regalia, liked watching the
graceful movements of the dancers and how they proudly danced in
time to the beat of the drum, the heart beat of Mother Earth. She didn't
know why but when the tiny tots danced in she felt like crying. She
tried to hide her tears by looking down and fiddling with her purse.
Maybe it was the beat of the drums or the song that was coming
through the speakers or the beauty of a sky slowly fading to darker
shades of blue or maybe her period was coming but, she saw the
beauty of her people despite all the crap they had to go through. Here
they were in this one moment in time all beautiful. Sherry tried to
memorize this picture forever.
Once the last tiny tot dancer was in, the grand entry song ended.
The dancers stood in a circle as the flag and victory song were sung.
Everyone remained standing as an elder from the reserve gave a prayer
in his language, then English. After the opening words of welcome, the
announcer introduced the many princesses from other pow-wows.
That's when Karen and Sherry took off to the porta-potties. It was
embarrassing to come out of a porta-potty and there was some
handsome traditional dancer waiting in line. So they always made sure
to go while the dancers were still on the floor.
"Let's go get something to eat now," Karen suggested.
"Sure."
While standing in the line Sherry noticed that Todd Brown was a
couple of people behind her. She felt herself blush and was glad that
her long auburn hair hid her burning ears. She was still angry with him

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Brenda Prince

because she wasn't short-listed for a job interview. He hired a woman
that he was romantically involved with. Sherry went to school with
her. The woman always put her hand up in class and would go off on
a tangent about her life and getting mad at other students if they interrupted. When Sherry and other students expressed concer~ to the
professor, he said, "When you go out in the real world you will have
to deal with people like that. Learn to deal with it here." Sherry had
taken out a student loan for three thousand dollars and didn't want to
hear this woman's life story every damned class. She was sure that this
woman would never get a job in the real world.
"Sherry!"
"What?"
"You're next."
Sherry looked at the young girls working the concession who
were waiting for her to order. "Oh sorry. One salmon dinner an~ a
Pepsi, please." She turned to Karen and said, "Yep, there's ~othmg
better in the whole world than some barbecued salmon and an ice cold
Pepsi."
They got their plates and turned around. Sherry wa~ glad ~odd
was looking at the menu board and not at her. She wasn t sure if he
even remembered who she was.
"I just can't stand that guy," Sherry said as they walked back to
their seats.
"Who?"
"Todd Brown Noser."
"Oh cripes, Sherry. Forget about it! Are you still mad that you
didn't get the job?"
"Yes and because he hired an airhead who is not qualified for the
job. It's not who you know, it's who you blow. You ~ow,,I used_to
respect him but now I've heard too much crap about him. I m begmning to believe it's true. I don't care what AA says. Everyo~e tal~s
about other people anyway. Look at old Doris, always talkmg shit
about me. Saying I try to snag her boyfriends. Have you seen her
boyfriends? Yikes. That jealous old hag."
"Are you sure you're not jealous?"
"Jealous? Jealous of what? That we have to suffer because if
you're not part of some stupid little clique you can't get hired
anywhere? It's the people that suffer because these pot smoking Indian

yuppies who want power don't know anything about anything? Where
are the real leaders? Where's the humbleness and humility? There's no
real Indians anymore."
"Wow. I didn't realize that. You mean there's no real Indians
here?" Karen asked.
"I don't know. This seems so commercialized. Oh great. Look.
There's Kirsten. If there's any name I hate more in the world it's
Kirsten. Look at her fake Indian jacket, fringe and all. Is that a real
Indian?"
"Sherry. You're wearing an Indian Motorcycle t-shirt."
"Yeah. Well that's different. I'm cool."
"Hey, you know why they have fringe on those jackets?" Karen
piped up.
"I don't know. To look pretty?"
"No, the water falls off it there, instead of getting the coat all
soaked."
"Wow. I didn't know that." Sherry imagined rain falling off the
fringe.
Todd made up his mind and was ready to order. "Three Indian
tacos, one coffee and two apple juices. Do you have a box I can use to
carry everything?" He wished he had his two sons with him to carry
the stuff but he had wanted them to save their place on the top
bleachers.
"Why do we have to come here Dad? This is weird," said
Cameron his twelve year old when they'd pulled up to the pow-wow
parking lot.
"It's not weird. I want my boys to experience all cultures. I want
you guys to listen to all kinds of music and see all kinds of art."
"How long do we have to stay here?" Asked ten year old Brandon.
"Not too long. I just need to talk to some people and then we'll
go."
Todd was impressed with the grand entry. He wondered if there
would be a chance to mention the upcoming election to the crowd and
wished he had spoken to the organizers about it before hand. Todd
prided himself on his public speaking skills. Joining Toastmasters was
the best thing he had done for his career. This election was a stepping
stone, he had it all planned out. That picture on the front page of them
with the Premier was a coup, an image that would be subconsciously

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Brenda Prince

Brenda Prince

planted in people's heads: a First Nation in Parliament. It was weird
but he admired Hitler because of the way he could work a crowd. Todd
could also work a crowd. He felt that most Native people knew
nothing about politics, he would be the one to lead them out of the
dark ages. When he got back to their seats, the boys were gone. He
spotted them at a toy stand and went over.
"Can we have money, Dad?" asked Brandon.
"Not now, later. Look our seats are gone now damn it. We have to
find other seats. Come on."
They walked around outside the arbor and Todd looked up at the
bleachers. There weren't any empty seats near the announcer stand. He
cursed silently. Todd knew where to be noticed. Walking around is
good too, he thought. He saw many people he knew and said hello.
They were mostly West Coast artisans with booths. Finally he spied a
space on the first tier of the bleachers. He directed his sons to sit and
sat between them. He passed them their food and then put on his
sunglasses and started to eat. "Mmmm. Good tacos."
"Man, does the Great Spirit have a sense of humor or what?
Bonehead is sitting directly across from us." Sherry informed Karen.
"We came here to enjoy the pow-wow not beat on boneheads. Just
get over it and move on with your life. People might think you have a
crush on him or something."
"Don't be retarded."
"Hey, I remember that you said he was good looking before."
"Yeah, that was before I knew what an a-hole he was."
"You're jealous."
"I am not."
Sherry decided to ignore Todd and to not make any more
comments about him. She savored every bite of the warm salmon.
"I'm stuffed. We have to dance off this supper. I hope they have
an intertribal soon. Will you dance, Sherry? Maybe during the Owl
Dance you can ask Todd to dance."
Sherry ignored her and watched the dancers going around in a
colorful human merry-go-round. They both stood when the Golden
age categories danced. Sherry was annoyed that Todd and his sons
remained sitting. "No respect," she muttered. The women watched the
men's category keenly. Sherry tried to make eye contact with one
dancer but felt stupid later when she saw him sitting beside a pretty

lady in a women's traditional outfit. I'm worlds away from these powwow people; a city girl. She looked into the distance at Mount Baker
and could see it's white top in the fading light. Maybe some day I'll
dance pow-wow. I belong to AA right now and I dance to the beat of a
different drum. Techno. Sherry smiled to herself then stopped
suddenly. She had to find a job soon.
She would graduate with a B.A. next month and it wasn't fair that
Kirsten was flouncing around in a factory fringe jacket because she
dropped out of school due to 'family problems'. Everyone knew she
was just stupid! Sherry watched Kirsten push her big butt down beside
a couple on the bleachers where Todd sat. When Kirsten leaned over
her cleavage showed. Has she no shame?
It was getting chilly as the September sun set. Sherry put on her
black hoody and zipped it up. She saw Kirsten leave her seat and walk
towards the porta-potties. Sherry stood and told Karen she was going
to the washroom.
"Want me to come?"
"Naw. It's okay."
Sherry timed it just right. She saw Kirsten go into a porta-potty
and she waited. She didn't know why but she wanted to tell Kirsten
she was graduating. Kirsten came out and washed her hands by the
porta-sinks. Sherry noticed her silver jewelry shining.
"Hi Kirsten."
Kirsten turned, "Oh hi Sharon."
Kirsten always called her Sharon and Sherry knew it was on
purpose.
"It's Sherry. How's it going?"
"Everything's going great. You?"
"I'm going to graduate this spring."
"Good for you. I don't believe in the white man's school anymore.
Who needs it? Sorry, I gotta run."
She left and Sherry watched her take a set of keys from her purse
and, zap, the door of a new white truck open. Sherry went back to her
seat.
Karen said, "They're going to have a 50/50 draw. Let's get
tickets."
Sherry didn't want to tell Karen about Kirsten's truck. "Yeah, I'll
buy some tickets when they come over this way." She saw Todd take

116

117

-

Brenda Prince
Brenda Prince

off his leather jacket and stretch out two toned arms while a young girl
measured a roll of tickets against them. People around him laughed.
Some genius had come up with the marketing technique and it seemed
to work. People were buying tickets like crazy. Karen and Sherry each
bought one arm's length of tickets.
She:1)''s mind wa~n't ~n the pow-wow at all. She was pondering
~he unfairness of her s1tuat10n and wondering how she could remedy
it. _She couldn't send a letter to the local Native newspaper because the
editor/owner was Todd's friends. She could write an anonymous letter
to the city telling them how incompetent he was, but that was her own
opinion based on his hiring of an airhead. She'd heard he drank at a
snazzy bar. Maybe she could go there with a camera and catch him.
The announcer said the next song was a Round Dance. "Everyone
up, dancers and audience join in." There was already about fifty
people out on the floor and more joining in.
Karen stood up, "Come on, Sherry."
"No way."
"Oh come on. It's dark now and it looks like fun."
It was dark and the electric motor run lights weren't much help.
They were many people out on the floor now. Sherry didn't know the
step but when she noticed that others didn't know it either she allowed
Karen to pull her up. She was holding hands with Karen when another
lady grabbed her other hand.
"Watch my feet!" Karen yelled as she side stepped to the double
beat of the drum. Sherry soon caught on. It was fun. There must have
been two hundred people in the circle. The people on her left turned in
the other direction so as to shake hands with the people down the line.
Sherry shuffled along and enjoyed shaking hands with people. There
~ere male traditional dancers with their face painted, she couldn't tell
if they were smiling, shy young people who didn't look at your face,
old people that smiled kindly and beautiful women in their regalia.
Some hands were cold and some were warm. Someone shook her hand
hard and said hello in a familiar voice. It was Todd.
Sherry wasn't sure if he knew her but in that split second he spoke
she saw something in his eyes that told her he was genuinely having
fun. He seemed innocent and vulnerable. The next two hands belonged
to his sons. Neither boy looked at her. The announcer asked more
people to join in. Sherry didn't think there could be more people. They
118

all held hands again.
Suddenly, everyone ran forward to the middle of the circle and
cried "Whoooo!" They walked backwards holding ha~ds and
everyone danced around again. Sherry and Karen were laughmg loud.
The elder people left the circle and the young people ran forward
again. When the dance was over, Sherry was out of breath. She
climbed up the bleachers and took a long drink from a water bottle.
people were dancing again. She saw Karen out there, but not Todd or
his sons.
Karen came over. "It's an intertribal. Come on," she said
extending her hand.
"I can't."
"Yes, you can. It's easy. I'll teach you. Come on, don't be a wuss.
It's just toe, heel down, toe, heel down."
Sherry laughed and let Karen pull her onto the dance floor.

119

Gordon Bird

In this World
In this World our two paths come together
We walk alone separate
We think different
You are a woman
I am a man
You and I fall in love with each other
We fall out of love and into love shock
There are a few brave and courageous women
There are a few brave and courageous men
There are sober and healthy people
Bravery is learning about themselves
A few will find themselves and love themselves
People hide behind their own face masks
People fear true happiness in themselves
People disconnect their heart from their head
Life is not about money or materialism or computers
Life is love energy earth energy
Life is giving knowledge away for free and not for money or gain
The world curtain has fallen shut
Our final act is being played out on a stage
A happy memory unfolds between two friends
In this world our two paths have come together.

120

Section 4

Rushing Water

Hartmut Lutz

Hartmut Lutz

Excerpt from True Confession Article

[I] have often had to relate stories and explain the details of why I am
interested in First Nations literatures to those Native students and
colleagues I have had the pleasure to work with. They expected and
demanded that I should come to them as a whole person, not just as a
distant "participant observer" or supposedly "neutral scholar." While
teaching at or networking with Native institutions and individuals I
was encouraged to "think with the heart" not as an effort to suspend
rational debate or scholarly research, but rather as an acknowledgement of the fact that, when dealing with people and their cultural
productions, even in academia, we should allow our empathy to guide
us. We should try never to forget the human ethics of our activities and
remember that in order to survive well on this planet, respect and
sharing are indispensable. But to "think with the heart" is an activity
that can become very self defeating in Western academia where
competition and jealousies easily lead to an attitude which slanders
honesty as naivety, frankness as impertinence, openness as weakness,
and suspects generosity as a tactical move. When I think with the heart
in my normal university surroundings, competing colleagues are prone
to misunderstand openheartedness as a weakness and use it for their
own advancement.
In 1987, I visited Canada for the first time as the recipient of a
Faculty Enrichment grant to conduct research for classes on Canadian
women writers, on Canadian multiculturalism, and on Canadian
regionalism, which allowed me to travel extensively. All the while, my
mental antennae were out to simultaneously absorb information about
Native people in Canada. Martin Heavyhead drove me around the
Blood Reserve near Lethbridge, Alberta. Howard Adams showed
Wolfgang Klooss and myself Metis sites around Prince Albert,
Saskatchewan. Robin McGrath in London, Ontario provided me with
information about Inuit authors. In Ottawa, Irenka Farmilo gave me
the chance to see Tomson Highway's The Rez Sisters on stage, and
through Parker Duchemin's seminar I met Wilfred Pelletier and Greg
Young Ing. My non-Native research went quite well and all the people

1 met were immensely helpful.
When I returned two years later on a Faculty Research grant
things went in ways that were almost uncanny. My research focus was
on Native literature, of which I had just taught a class back in
Germany. This time, I brought a bibliography on index cards in a
cardboard box, a camera, and a small tape recorder to interview
writers, if possible. I also had with me four small eagle feathers which
Ute Krause from Tokendorf in Schleswig-Holstein had given me to
share. Prior to my departure, I had written to Theytus Books in
penticton, to Fifth House Publishers in Saskatoon and to Pemmican
Press in Winnipeg, and had contacted some colleagues in advance. My
hopes were high, and in my most daring dreams I thought of meeting
writers whose works I had known for years and had always wanted to
meet, like Maria Campbell, or "Bobbie Lee," or Jeannette Armstrong.
My friend and comrade from Davis, the (now late) Howard Adams,
had meanwhile returned to his Native Canada, and he set up a meeting
for me with the then director of what later became the First Nations
House of Learning at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver.
That's where things began to fall into place. A series of things began
to "just happen" which fell into a pattern far beyond my expectations.
While I checked their library holdings, Ethel B. Gardner at the
Native Center at UBC was going through my cardboard box bibliography when all of a sudden she exclaimed, "Oh, Lee!" She'd come
across my entry of the German translation of the book, Indian Rebel,
written by a Canadian Indian women called Bobbie Lee whom I had
never been able to locate under that name. Through Ethel I found out
that Bobbie Lee was really Lee Maracle and that she just happened to
be Ethel's neighbor. We met the next day at her house. The day after
Lee Maracle and I just happened to be on the some plane to Penticton
where Jeannette Armstrong and others met us at the airport and took
us to the En' owkin Centre, which just happened on that day to be
opening the International School of First Nations Writing (Sept. 11,
1989). I just happened to be their first guest speaker, relating to their
apprehensive ears what I had to say about Native Writing in Canada. I
was quite scared.
I began my presentation wishing the new students well and
presenting to them a little wooden mountain climber, a moveable toy
figure which climbs up if you pull the string that is looped through the

122

123

True Confessions of a German lndianthusiast, or
How Things 'Just Happen'

Hartmut Lutz

Hartmut Lutz

hands and feet. I expressed my hope that the center would climb lik
this little fellow. For ~asy identification I attached one of the eagl:
feathers, then handed 1t over to Jeannette Armstrong. When I did that
her eyes widened for a moment and I wondered what I had done
wrong. Contrary to my fears I just happened to have done something
right, I learned. Later Jeannette was scheduled to attend a ceremony
the week after, and to that ceremony she needed to bring an eagle
feather that had to be given to her. Time was getting close and she had
no clue where the feather would come from- in this case it came from
Germany. Since that first visit to the En'owkin Centre I have always
felt very attached to the place and the people working there.
About a week later, while briefly visiting Fifth House publishers
in Saskatoon together with my colleague from Kiel, Konrad Gross,
two of the authors I hoped to interview just happened to phone within
the span of about twenty minutes. Interviews were arranged with
Maria Campbell in Saskatoon and Tomson Highway in Toronto. In
Regina, I had a job interview at the Saskatchewan Indian Federated
College, who just happened to be looking for someone to teach
Canadian First Nations Literature. I got the job and a year later, with
the support of the German Academic exchange Service, would go
there w~th my family to teach at the SIFC for one wonderful and very
rewardmg year. Thank you, Bernie Selinger! A few days later in
Winnipeg, I visited Pemmican Press, met Virginia Maracle and later
that day, attended a meeting of writers and cultural workers who just
happened that day to have the founding meeting of the Manitoba
Native Writers Association. I also had the chance to interview Jordan
Wheeler, the founder. At Thunder Bay I stayed with Renate Eigenbrod
(who two years ago completed her PhD in Native Literature at the
University of Greifswald) and she introduced me to authors Ruby
(Farrell) Slipperjack and George Kenny, as well as to Ahmoo Allen
Angeconeb, an Anishinabe artist who later became a very good friend
and has visited us in Germany on several occasions. That fall trip
through Canada culminated a very busy 24 hour stay in Toronto where
I met with and interviewed Lenore Keeshig-Tobias, Beatrice Culleton
(Mosionier) and Tomson Highway, and was also present at the book
launch for Maria Campbell and Linda Griffith's Book of Jessica.
While conducting the interviews during that five week research
trip in the fall of 1989, starting with the interview with Jeanette at the
124

En'owkin Centre, I had no clue they would eventually tum into a
whole book, Contemporary Challenges, which included more conversations with Native authors conducted during my stay in Regina the
following year. Nor did I know when visiting them, that Fifth House
would agree to publish the book which came out in 1991 and was used
in many university courses on Native Literature which began to be
offered at that time (after Oka).
With that trip and the book project, I have again and again had the
feeling that things "just happened" in extremely lucky and advantageous ways for me. Except for one individual poet, the Native authors
I talked to were immensely supportive of the project. They simply told
me go ahead. The 'moccasin telegraph' helped as well. Most of the
writers I had conversations with, I have since seen on several
occasions, both on Turtle Island and in Europe. Some have become
personal friends. Do I hear someone say, "How subjective and
unscholarly?" I wish I could see them more often. Since the lucky
coincidences during my 1989 research trip just happened in
wonderful, supportive and effective but inexplicable ways, I, as a
"Westerner," had problems, to accept my good luck without continually asking for the why and how until one day Jeannette Armstrong,
with an almost amused smile simply said, "Relax, Hartmut! That's just
how things happen. It's all there. Just focus! Everything is there."
Thank you!

I
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125

Jeannette C. Armstrong
Jeannette C. Armstrong

Water is SiwJkw
Composed for presentation at the World Water Forum in Kyoto,
Japan, March 2003 on the opening plenary on behalf of UNESCO
Canada

siwlkw
she murmured
is an emergence
the subsequence of
transforming to be lapped
all else
a completeness of the design
to
continuously onto long pink tongues
in that same breathing
be the sweet drink coursing to become the body a welling spring
eternally renewing a sacred song of the mother vibrating outward
from the first minute drop formed of sky
earth
and light
quietness siWlkw
is a song she breathed
burstin~ out of the deep
aw_akenmg cells toward this knowing that you are the Great River
~s Is _the ab~ndant land it brings to carve its banks then spread
its fertile plams and deltas and open its basins it's great estuaries
even to where it finally joins once again the grandmother ocean'
vast an~ liquid peace
as is the headwater glaciers of the jagge~
mou?tams
waitmg
for the yearly procession of thunder beings
as spirits released from
beanng the dark cloud's sweep
upward
green depths cradling whale song
dance on wind
as are the cold
ice springs feeding rushing brooks and willow draped creeks
meandering through teeming wetlands to sparkling blue lakes as are
the silent
underground reservoirs coursing
gradually up
toward roots reaching down to draw dew upward through countless
unfurlings
into the suns full light
as much as the salmon and
sleek sturgeon
sliding through strong currents
even the tall
straight reeds
cleaning stagnant pools
equally
are the marsh
bogs
swarming multitudinous glistening flagella and wings in high
country holding dampness for the gradual descent through loam and
luxuriant life
to drink in
silkW she said
is to remember
this
song is the way
it is the storms way
driving new wet earth
?own slip?ery s~opes to make fresh land the river's way heaving
its full. silt weight
crushing solid rock
the tide's way
~mooth1~g old plates of stone
finally deciding for all
the way of
ice
piled
bluegreen layer upon layer
over eons
sustaining
so somewhere on her voluptuous body the
this fragment of now
rain continues
to fall
in the right places the mists unceasingly
float upward
to where they must
and the fog forever ghosts

cross the land
in the cool desert wind
where no rain falls
and
blood
balancing time
in the
aach drop is more precious than
:ay of the silvery hoar frost covering tundra
where iridescent ice
tinkles under the bellies of caribou
her song
is the sky's way
holding
the gossamer filaments of rainbow
together guarding
the silent drift of perfect white flakes where the moose stop momentarily to look upward her song in the forest insuring a leaf shaped
captures each glistening droplet
to celebrate the vast
just so
miles of liquid
pumping through the veins of the lion
parting
undulating savanna grasses
lifting great Condor wings
soaring
last circles in the mountains of Chile
accumulating in the places it
chooses
to pool in subterranean caverns
moving through porous
stones
seeping and wetting sand
deep
inside of her
caressing
thunder eggs and smooth pebbles at her heart
This song is the way

I

126

127

Vera Wahegijig

Vera Wabegijig

all the trees who sacrificed their lives
let's call it a stand
let's call it resistance

we come from a place of spirits
where all creation has spirit. each spirit connected by rhythms,
vibrations, songs, dances and stories
we carry in us memories of every creation story
we carry in us protocols
let's use these protocols
protocols that are based on respect
protocols that are based on peace
protocols that are based on love
let's really meet in a place of like minds
let's follow these protocols with like minds
with all creation
treating each other with respect
having peace
accepting love
talking to each other with respect
having peace
accepting love
walking to each other with respect
having peace
accepting love

resistance against mass destruction
mass homicide
mass genocide
resistance against corporations
corporations who sell the lives of many
by the truckload
that descend from mountains
one right after another
tree bodies slaughtered
stacked one on top of another
sawmills burned to the ground
trees burned to the ground
can we call this nature's resistance?
nature's struggle?
nature's protest?
we come from a place of spirits
let's take a moment of silence
for all the spirits that passed on

we come from a place of spirits
not a place where we don't give a shit
about the next person
even if it's our mother
father
brother
sister
or cousin

we come from a place of spirits
spirits that connect through heartbeat
through breath
through Creation
we are a pool of water
and if we dare to look in that pool
we will see
we will feel
we will know
that we are connected
what goes on here
goes on everywhere

we come from a place of spirits
where there is such a thing as karma
and "what goes around comes around"
we see this every day
like a slap in the face
the fire that blazed in the okanagan

we come from a place of spirits
129

128

,l

Vera Wahegijig

Vera Wahegijig

a place we need to visit
a place we need to recognize
a place that exists in each of us
a place of beauty
a place of peace
a place of love
a place of respect
a place where you can go and never be turned away
a place where we can all dance
we can all celebrate
who we are
without illusions of
race
age
sex
demographics
money
because that's all it is
illusions
to divide us
to make us weak
to make war
to make governments
to conquer us
to make us dependant
on a system that clearly does not work
and has never worked
and no matter how we try to pass amendments
and no matter how we try to resist
and no matter how we try to protest
it just isn't enough
because of illusions
everyone is caught up in some sort of an illusion
that will always keep us divided
that will always keep us at war with one another
that will always keep us blind
and never see the truth
130

and never know the truth
and never feel the truth
we come from a place of spirits
and those spirits are calling us
and those spirits are dancing for us
and those spirits are singing for us
and those spirits are praying for us
to wake up
to wipe the illusions from our eyes
to come together with like minds
to come together with our protocols
our protocols of peace love and respect
these are basic laws
we come from a place of spirits
where everything is old
and everything is new
we learn from the old
we can reach back in time
learn from mistakes
our failure to communicate
our failure to use our protocols
we can really understand what the old people are saying
we can really understand what forgiveness means
we can really understand what cycles are
we can see that we are repeating cycles
dysfunctional cycles that we repeat, repeat and repeat
until we wake up
we come from a place of spirits
and I am here dancing singing and celebrating
who I am
who I am
who I am

131

Lillian Sam

Suzi Bekkattla

Tribute to Natives That Died in 1918 (Flu Epidemic)

Did you get my postcard from Mexico?

En 'owkin class assignment 1996
Silent is the forest
Tales of days gone by
Marked graves in forgotten lands
Crosses rotted to the ground
Ancestors' cries
Lost in dull voices
Mothers buried beside their own
Newborn babes died with deadly force
Blood saturated the land
Boston's curse
Abyss of death
Enveloped the reserves
Grandfathers, who will hunt the land?
Roots lie decapitated
Medicine people, where are you?
Drums lie silent
Songs on the mournful winds.

132

Dear friend, I've thought of you for the past three weeks. You always
want to know where I am so I sent you a post card telling you why I
didn't want to come home. I went to Mexico for solitude. I cried a lot
while I was there thinking of the changes that were taking place in our
Native communities. It seems the further I go away the more aware I
become of who we are and why we hurt so much. When I was in
Mexico, I saw people who had a lot of love for each other. Their
language keeps them alive, material wealth did not matter, family is
the main issue for these people. I thought about our people, how our
families are divided and how we lost our love for each other. I just
wanted to get lost into this scene. Although people talk to me in
Spanish, I just smile and say no Espanola englis, I am a Navaho from
Canada. I just wanted to escape the residential residue. I wanted to live
with our people in the present but the past keeps holding them back.
Joan, I am sure you got the post card that I sent from Hong Kong when
I was teaching there. When I was dealing with sexual abuse issues, you
were there. When I hit bottom, you were there. I walked away with a
scar, held my face down, I was so crushed in spirit. Our people still
suffer like that. Sometimes you need to go back in order to go ahead.
I learned to love again. I was dead for along time, but today I help
people that are hurting from their past. I can laugh, smile, touch, taste,
hear myself laugh and sing. Joan, you won't get this postcard, but
Brian will pick up your last mail, last words that were written to you.
My friend you died July 23rd, 2003 and we buried you on the 29th.
You didn't look like you, they had to put a mask on you. What kept me
going was memories of your laughter, your words and how you treated
your friends, your beautiful brown eyes. You attracted a lot of friends,
you had a great heart. I was angry at how you died and what you
fought against. You fought your last fight, you got your message
across, you moved the people in the whole northern Saskatchewan,
you were the Lady Diana of the North. They treated you with love and
respect and also for the first time in history people came from all over
to say good bye. Joan, I never say goodbye, forever we will remain
friends. I have faith I will see you again, Mahsi cha for sharing your
life with me, you gave me more reason to live and to love my people.
Suzi
133

Gordon Bird

Gordon Bird

Paddle My Canoe

This - myself

Dark ghosts haunt house
Edge of the world
Walk along trail of unhappiness
Many have been down here

Locked into myself
Sucked into myself
Fearful of myself
Fighting myself
Letting myself go

Felt those before us
Have prayed this day
Denied of authentic truth
Frames of empty words
A broken truth
Behind steel doors
White bright minds made a decision
In our best interest to follow this way
Uncomfortable in these skins
Deep entrenched hatred resentment
Decades go by silent even today
Caught in the middle of denial
No one takes control of their life
Some leave broken memories
Many want to roam endlessly
Send my spirit home land

where is the answer
where is the freedom
when do I let go
when do I set myself free
I have so much to learn

I'm letting myself be free for the first time
I'm not giving up on myself ever again
I'm moving forward
I'm unraveling the mystery inside
I'm going to begin to understand myself
I'm going to find the courage to go through with this!
I'm not stopping until I find out who I am
This - myself I love
This - myself I comprehend
This - myself I am proud
This - myself I have dignity
This - myself I have self-respect
This - myself I have confidence
This - myself I can do anything I dream
This - myself I have found who I am
This - myself no one can take anything from me
I know who I am

something so simple
is the most difficult
a lot of people talk today
those who want to speak up
Mend the shattered mind
heal the scared heart
regenerate the physical
elevate the spirit

134

135

Gordon Bird

Gordon Bird

Four Invisible Circles

I am here
Empty to the touch

It is safer with you far from me
Not bare witness to such horror
Your eyes are to behold beauty
Not a heathen child with scars

The universe has been kind
So very generous to both of us
We are tom from a lovers cloth
How we differ
How we are the same

I have everything to offer
None can I offer you

Lake has dried
No music
Still waters
Empty silent air

I am alone once more
Fending for noone's affection
I wander this empty trail
With no hand to hold
Keep me in harmony
In balance
Stand by me
Don't let me drown
Natural forces will have their way
Earth and universe discuss
How they look upon us
What lays beneath the surface
Accept the love I have for you in my soul
That alone is not enough
Even for ten lifetimes
I love You with all my heart
These words alone will not bear fruit
I have no way to stand
Only the stars and spirits to guide us
You are there
Out of reach

I

[
136

r

l

137

I

Nikki Maier

I,

Karen W Olson

What is Writing but the Wild Horses of Your Thoughts?
Thu~dering from your mind with the power of hooves and snorting,
frothmg at the mouth as I sit typing
as fast as I can just to keep up
Taste the dust in your mouth and look over your shoulder
I can see them!
They are coming for me!
Like clouds dropping from the New Mexico sky
A tornado hangs on the horizon

The Ninety Dollar Surrender
Precis: This is the fictionalized story of Mary Eleanor
Williams, the oldest daughter of a St. Peter's Indian Band
Councillor. She is fourteen and frightened at the prospect of
leaving her reserve. However, there is no choice for her family
or the community; they must leave. The wagon journey to their
new home is fraught with emotional upheaval and physical
danger. Mary must contend with the rigors of the trip, an
awakening womanhood and the sorrow of a forced move

Chapter 1
Certain whispers will keep you awake at night
So write it out goddammit!
Smell the hay in the air
They are still here, breathing steam
It is our own afterworld we are after
Where quiet time arrives like a wave from the lake
settling into the sand, kissing the shore
with a wet tongue
The sand cradles my feet
and the wind tosses my hair around my head
like a wild pony shaking her mane
I am alive with the smell of horses
I can feel their breath
Hot and moist
breathing on the nape of my neck
Breathing and whispering
crazy stories in my ears
What is writing but the wild horses of your thoughts?

138

March 12, 1908

The sky is getting darker and there are more gusts of wind. A late
storm is coming. I tum to go inside when a harsh swirl of wind strikes
the dead oak tree out back and throws it against the fence. I get my
little sister Abigail and baby brother Colin into the house just as the
first hailstones begin to fall. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. From the window,
I can see a ridge of dark grey clouds moving in from the southwest.
Mother has an armful of blankets. "Mary. Get the hammer and
nails," she yells over the pounding on the roof. I stumble to the kitchen
and search the cupboard where Father keeps the tools. My hands shake
when I hand over the hammer.
I am fourteen. My family lives on the St. Peter's Indian Band
Reserve located next to the town of Selkirk in southern Manitoba.
Earlier that day, I watched my father and Uncle Gordie ride off in the
wagon to a neighbour's place. Changes began when the Indian Affairs
men came last fall. There were three of them. Two with fat, sweaty
faces. "Too greedy," whispered Mother the day we saw them. The
other man was stick-thin and dressed in grey flannel; he did all the
talking. They stayed in Selkirk for nearly four months. At the end of
December, our band held a vote and, the thin man announced that the
St. Peter's Band had voted to move to a new reserve. Everyone was
worried now. That was not what they had voted on and this was the
third meeting this week.
Mother held out her hand for a nail. I pull out a straight one and
give it to her. Our rhythm is set like that until every window is
blanketed. The little kids are good. They sit huddled on our old green
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Karen W Olson

couch, nodding solemnly each time I hiss, "Stay where you are."
When we are finished, the house is too dark so Mother lights a
kerosene lamp. Warm yellow light chases away the dimness and I feel
a little better.
I know Mother is worried about our father and her brother Gordie
out there in the awful hailstorm. She paces the living room with her
arms held tightly in front. Her shadow marches across the dim walls
behind her. I wish she would stop the constant walking. Colin and
Abigail begin to cry softly. I want to cry too.
"Do you think it'll last long?" I whisper.
My mother's brown woolen skirt swishes against floor. The quiet
sobs of my siblings and the rattle on the roof are the only other sounds.
She had not heard me. I spoke louder.
"Mother. Do you think the storm is going to be over soon?"
She turns toward me. There is a sparkle of tears at the inner
corners of her eyes that tells me she is trying hard not to cry. Then I
realize what she is thinking. Hail like this can kill a person.
Last year, a sudden storm like this one caught poor little Mitchell
Sanderson out on the open road between his place and town. He'd
been sent to town for sugar. They found him a few yards from a big
oak tree with his body protecting a sack of sugar for the cakes his
mother wanted to bake. Poor Mrs. Sanderson still blamed herself for
that.
As though only realizing we are there, my mother rushes over and
takes Colin from me. Abigail moves closer too.
"Of course. Yes. It'll be over soon, Mary."
She holds Colin as if he is a newborn baby, murmuring sounds
that calm us all. My little brother soon falls asleep. Abigail sits quietly,
watching her every movement.
Finally, the storm is over. The clatter on the roof dwindles to a few
patters and an eerie silence soon falls over the house. My mother and
I let out great breaths of air. We smile at each other. I giggle and that
sets us both to laughing aloud. The sound of our laughter is strange to
hear. Colin wakes up with a sleepy smile. Abigail's delicate giggles are
added to the ruckus, when into our happiness comes a loud knock on
the door.
"Daddy home," squealed Colin as he tries to wriggle out of
Mother's arms.
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I knew it wasn't Father. Why would he knock? My mother knew
She put Colin down on the floor and turned
him toward us.
toO,
.
.
Thankfully, Abigail took her brother. She earned him over to an old
wood trunk by the wall and put an old blanket over both of them like
a tent. I could hear her whisper, "Let's go to fish camp," (a g_ame I had
played with her). With my heart pounding I moved t~ stand m front of
the makeshift tent. Mother opens the door and sunlight sends a long
sliver of light inside.
Two strangers stood on our steps. White men. One had bushy
eyebrows and a grey beard, the other was red-faced and wheezing.
Greybeard asked, "Is Mr. Williams was home?"
Mother shook her head no and explained that he had gone to see
a neighbour. After a brief discussion, Redface held out a thick brown
envelope. I saw my mother's arm falter as she reached across the
doorway into the bright sunshine. Both men nod curtly then turn to
leave. I ran to the door to get a better look at them. Town was six miles
away. I wondered how they weren't caught in the hailstorm.
Out in the yard their horses stomped, crushing the balls of ice
around them. White gusts of breath shoot from their nostrils. They are
skittish but not because of any storm. Our dog Patch is bothering them.
She darts in for a nip then runs out of the way when the horses kick
out. One of the men (it looks to be Redface) stamps his foot and yells
a curse. Patch doesn't seem to care and keeps at the horse's legs until
they are well past the fence. The storm must have missed the men by
mere minutes.
"Patch," I call. "Come on back girl."
After a few more attacks against the horses that are answered by
the shouts of the men, Patch races back into the yard. I knelt down as
she came up to me, her pink tongue lolls to one side dripping saliva
onto me. A stub of tail that was bitten off in a skirmish with a black
bear moves in a black whir. I hold her close and bury my face in the
rough fur not understanding why I feel so proud of the dumb mutt.
I don't know how long I stayed like that. The clink of a harness
and hooves ringing out meant my Father and Uncle Gordie were
coming back. Soon they come into the yard with the team at a near
gallop. Steam clouds around the massive brown bodies of our two old
horses when they pull to a stop. My father leaps down and runs toward
the house. The look in his eyes scares me, there is fear in there again.
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Drew Hayden Taylor

I can't get used to seeing that in his eyes.
Patch wriggles out of my grasp to meet him but Father barely
glances at her. I stood to wait for him. As he comes near, my heart
beats faster.
"Anything happen here?" he asks gruffly.
I nod, mute and suddenly very afraid of the harmless looking
envelope which my mother had taken. The hand my father puts on my
shoulder trembles. The cold inside me gets colder. I put my own small
hand on top of his big one then hold on tightly. Uncle Gordie calls out
that he'll take care of the horses. As one, my father and I go inside.
Inspiration for The Ninety Dollar Surrender:
In 1907, the Manitoba Government and the settlers of Selkirk
conspired to steal the rich farmlands of the St. Peter's Band through a
shady land development deal. In what has now been found to be an
illegal surrender, the Saulteaux and people lost their homes, farms and
most of their possessions in the forced move to the bush lands of the
Interlake region. Ninety dollars is the amount which Frank Pedley,
Deputy Superintendent General of Indian Affairs at the time, said
would be paid to the head of every family for each acre of land. A land
developer in charge of the transactions disappeared with all the money
and many people were left with nothing. Indian Affairs commissioners
in Ottawa turned a blind eye to the unlawful actions of their officials.
St. Peter's band members moved to their new reserve by train, wagon,
on horseback and by foot. Several people died on the journey. Today,
the town of Selkirk sits on what was once the St. Peter's Reserve, the
home of Chief Peguis who was named The Great Peacemaker by the
Canadian public for his intervention in a planned slaughter of early
Selkirk settlers during the mid-1800's.

142

Dry Lips Oughta Move to America
It's no secret that the three largest human exports to the United States
are hockey players, comedians and Native playwrights (or by proxy
their Native plays). Practically unknown in the States, most
researchers and the few hardy theater eccentrics often had to look
northward to get their Aboriginal theater fix.
That is why I found myself on a cold New England evening,
making my way through the narrow streets of Providence, Rhode
Island to see a public reading of my play, THE BUZ'GEM BLUES, an
Aboriginal comedy. On January 24th, Trinity Repertory Theater, one
of the five largest repertory theaters in America with an annual budget
of 7.6 million dollars, hosted its second annual 'Theater From The
Four Directions Festival'. Last year's festival, now an anticipated
yearly event, included Assiniboine/Nakota playwright William Yellow
Robe Jr. (who is now the company's Playwright-in-Residence), and
two Canadian Native writers, Saulteaux playwright and winner of the
1997 Governor General's Award, Ian Ross (who for some reason
neglected to show up), and myself.
Representatives from theaters and educational institutions in
America's northeast came to the sold out Festival to check out this
strange animal called Native theater. Based on the success of both
festivals, plans for a full scale production of one of these plays is anticipated for next season with a possible national tour to follow. It will be
the largest production of a Native play seen in America. As Cherokee
director and Yale School of Drama, graduate Elizabeth Theobald
Richards puts it, "it will definitely be one for the record books."
While relatively rare, Aboriginal involvement in theater is not
entirely unknown in America. Within its own borders, Native
American Indian writers like Diane Glancy, William Yellow Robe Jr.
and Hanay Geiogama have been plying their artistic wares for years
with limited results in an environment that was unaware there were
still Native people alive in America, let alone that they had anything
interesting to say on stage.
Randy Reinholz, Artistic Director and co-founder with Jean Bruce
Scott of Native Voices, an American Indian theater company and
Festival located in San Diego and Los Angeles, believes he knows
why. "I'd say Native Theater in the States is like Native people in the
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Drew Hayden Taylor

States. We're struggling to have anybody notice we are not extinct.
While we were doing (Canadian playwright) Maria Clement's show
'URBAN TATTOO' at the Gene Autry Heritage Museum in L.A., the
museum did a market survey of what the common perceptions about
Native Americans in Los Angeles and Southern California were. The
most common perception is that they didn't know there were Native
people; they thought they were extinct. So when you think that is what
popular Americans think, the idea of Native theater is really way out
there. It is a kind of esoteric thing."
Oskar Eustis, Artistic director of Rhode Island's Trinity Repertory
Theater, has a similar spin on the theory. " .. .in the United States, there
is a much lower level of sophistication about culture, about the idea
that the government should be involved with it in an ongoing investment and supportive of. So any group that doesn't have financial
resources or critical masses, it makes it tougher for them to find a
voice in entering the mainstream. As a result, I feel like we haven't
gotten a movement here yet.. .. I look at Tomson Highway's breakthrough plays in the mid eighties events that seemed to catalyze
Canadian Native theater. We haven't had that founding bomb go off."
But the bomb may be ticking. These days, the Native theatrical
voice seems to be appearing disproportionately more often south of
the border; but, it is a Canadian Native voice. Reinholz's Native
Voices, in operation since 1993, has workshopped and presented
twenty-four scripts in total. About half were by Canadian Native
playwrights. The company is in preproduction for their third Equity
production in L.A. and two of those three productions features
Canadian writers.
Oddly enough, the presence of Canadian Native writers in the
American theater system is not going unnoticed. Reinholz's Board of
Directors have been known to complain about the high percentage of
Canadians this American organization seem to be supporting. During
the late nineties, I was invited twice to participate in the Prince
William Sound Community College Edward Albee Theater
Conference held in Valdez, Alaska. The reason I was there was to
accept (both times) first prize in the Alaska Native Plays Contest.
During my last visit, one of the organizers told me the rules for the
competition were going to change. A higher up at the University of
Alaska faculty who organized the conference asked with some irrita-

I

tion, "Are we just going to become a dumping ground for Canadian
Indian playwrights?"
"Canadian Native writers have a greater history, a longer history
f combining storytelling with contemporary theater. The scripts are
~asier to work with because the writers have a long history of working
in theater. When we work with a lot of the writers from the States, I
would say with half of them it is their first or second workshop. So
there was a kind of getting everybody on the same page process of
'what do you do to workshop'. The Canadians had already been
through this process, very familiar with the process and very able to
use it properly," comments Reinholz. "The writers have been known
for a while. Canadian writers have been published and people have
been writing about Canadian Native theater for ten years. It's part of
the mainstream. There's also a deeper talent pool. I think there's an
emerging directing, and I bet there'll be a designing pool and stage
managers. So there's quite an interesting pool to draw from in
Canada," adds Reinholz.
The end result of this Canadian First Nation theatrical influx into
the American theatrical heart ... Who knows? It might end up being just
a momentary blip on the scope, or, it might actually develop into a
legitimate trend. It is too early to say. Time will tell and more research
is necessary.
In a further search for Native theater in America, after Rhode
Island I saddled up my pony and forayed to the next logical destination in my theatrical sojourn - New York City's Broadway. Rarely will
you find more theaters and plays per capita than in the theater district
around Times Square. As was expected, there was nary a Native play
to be seen anywhere. Perhaps that's why it's called the Great White
Way.
However, that part of the journey was not without discovery. New
York's Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian is planning to
further explore the possibility of incorporating and utilizing more
Native theater into their mandate. On an ironic note, the museum is
located at the edge of Wall Street, which got it's name several hundred
years ago because there was originally a large wall built on that
location to keep out the Indians. On an even more ironic note, while at
the Smithsonian Museum of the American Indian I bumped into, of all

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Drew Hayden Taylor

Drew Hayden Taylor

people, the Honorable Robert Nault, the Canadian Federal Minister of
Indian and Northern Development.
I guess the Department of Indian Affairs has to know what all the
Indians are up to, regardless of where they are.

146

Recreational Cultural Appropriation
F. Scott Fitzgerald once wrote, "The Rich are different from you and
I," to which people usually respond, "Yeah, they got more money." On
a similar theme, it's been my Ojibway- tainted observation over the
years that "Middle Class White people are different from you and I" ...
yeah, they're insane.
Much has been written over the years about the differences
between Native people and non-Native people, and how differently
they view life. I think there's no better example of this admittedly
broad opinion than in the peculiar world of outdoor recreational water
sports and the death wish that surrounds it. As a member of Canada's
Indigenous population, I've always cast a suspicious glance at all
these water-logged enthusiasts for several reasons. The principal one
being the now familiar concept of cultural appropriation - this time our
methods of water transportation. On any given weekend, Canadian
rivers are jam packed with plastic/fiberglass kayaks and canoes,
practically none of them filled with authentic Inuit or Native people,
all looking to taunt death using an Aboriginal calling card.
Historically, kayaks and canoes were the lifeblood of most Native
and Inuit communities. They were vital means of transportation and
survival, not toys to amuse beige, bored weekend warriors. To add
insult to injury and further illustrate my point, there's a brand of gloves
used by kayakers to protect their hands from developing callouses.
There are called Nootkas. To the best of my knowledge, the real
Nootka, a West Coast First Nation, neither kayaked nor wore gloves.
Perhaps my argument can best be articulated with an example of
the different way these two cultural groups react to a single visual
stimulus. First, in a river put some Native people in a canoe right
beside some White people, also in a canoe. Directly in front of them
should be a long stretch of roaring rapids. With large pointy rocks and
lots and lots of turbulent white water. Now watch the different
reactions.
Granted, I'm being a bit general but I can safely say that the vast
majority of Native people, based on thousands of years of traveling the
rivers of this great country of ours, would probably go home and order
a pizza. Or, put the canoe in their Ford pickup and go downstream to
a more suitable and safe location, and pick up pizza on the way.
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Drew Hayden Taylor

Usually, the only whitewater Native people prefer is in their showers
Hurtling toward potential death and certain injury tends to go agains~
many traditional Native beliefs. Contrary to popular belief, the word
portage is not a French word, it is Native for "Are you crazy?! I'm not
going through that! Do you know how much I paid for this canoe?"
Now put some sunburned Caucasian canoeists in the same
position and their natural inclination is to aim directly for the rapids
paddling as FAST as they can TOWARD the white water. I heard a
rumor once that Columbus was aiming his three ships directly at a
raging hurricane when he discovered the Bahamas. I believe I have
made my point. Yet even with this bizarre lemming-like behavior
there are still more White people out there than Native people.
'
I make these observations based on personal experience.
Recently, for purely anthropological reasons, I have risked my life to
explore this unique sub-culture known as whitewater canoeing and sea
kayaking. There is also a sport known as whitewater kayaking but I
have yet to put that particular bullet in my gun. So for three days I
found myself in the middle of Georgian Bay during a storm, testing
my abilities at sea kayaking. I, along with a former Olympic rower, a
Quebecois lawyer who consulted on the Russian Constitution, one of
Canada's leading Diabetes specialists and a 6 ft. 7 ex-Mormon who
could perform exorcisms bonded over four foot swells and lightening.
All in all, I think a pretty normal cross-cut of average Canadians. The
higher the waves, the more exciting they found it.
I often find these outings to be oddly patriotic in their own unique
way. I cannot tell you the number of times I've seen many of these
people wringing out their drenched shirts, showing of an unusual array
of t_an lines, usually a combination of sunburnt red skin, and fish- belly
white stomachs. For some reason, it always reminds me of the red and
white motif on the Canadian flag. Maybe, back in the 1960's, that is
where the Federal government got their original inspiration for our
national emblem.

it to the bottom as fast as gravity and snow would allow was not a
cultural activity. The same could be said for bungee jumping.
Originally, it was a coming of age ritual in the south Pacific. Young
boys would build platforms, tie a vine to their leg and leap off to show
their bravery and passage into adulthood. I doubt the same motivation
still pervades the sport (if it can be called a sport).
I have brought up this issue of recreational cultural appropriation
rnany times with a friend who organizes these outdoor adventures. The
irony is that she works at a hospital. And she chews me out for not
wearing a helmet while biking. She says there is no appropriation. If
anything the enthusiasm for these sports is a sign of respect and gratefulness.
I think these people should pay a royalty of sorts every time they
try to kill themselves using one of our cultural legacies. I'm not sure
if a patent or copyright was ever issued on kayaks or canoes (it was
probably conveniently left out of some treaty somewhere) but
somebody should definitely investigate that possibility. Or better yet,
every time some non-Native person whitewater canoes down the
Madawaska River or goes kayaking off ofTobermory they first should
take an Aboriginal person to lunch. That is a better way to show
respect and gratefulness (and it's less paperwork).

But this is only one of several sports originated by various
Indigenous populations that have been corrupted and marketed as
something fun to do when not sitting at a desk in some high rise office
building. The Scandinavian Sarni, also known as Lapplanders, were
very instrumental in the development of skiing, although I doubt
climbing to the top of a mountain and hurling themselves off to make
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Gunargie O'Sullivan

Sherida Crane

Everybody's Loo kin' for Sammy

foo Wicked

Dedicated to Sammy Douglas of the STO:LO Nation

everybody everybody everybody's lookin' for lookin' for sammy
down by the river
down by the river side
cause he was doing what he loved to do best
and he was doing what he fought to do
now everybody everybody's lookin' for lookin' for sammy
down by the river,
down by the riverside,
yaayaayaayaayaayaayaahaahaahaahaahaa
cause he was doing what he loved to do best
yaayaayaayaayaayaaaaaaahaahaa
he was doing what he fought to do
yayayayayayaya
he was fishing
he was fishing fishing fishing
fishing for salmon down by the riverside
down by the river
down by the river
down by the riverside
yayaayaaayaahaahaahaahaahaahaa

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A straight pow-wow song plays on the stereo and I give him a big
smile. "Charlie please don't, I'm not comfortable with that," I say in a
little girl voice that I hate. I'm in love. I love everything about him. I
want to let him go down on me because I have fantasized about it so
much. Instead I say, "You don't have to do that," and pull him on top
ofme.
"Just love me Charlie."
He says, "Helen, I love everything about you."
I will love my cowboy forever but, I don't believe him or myself.
I don't spread my legs for aliens and anal probes, only for handsome
Indian men. I can make them happy.
Charlie drops me off at home. I kiss him and he gives me a hug
that makes me feel safe and strong. Nothing is wrong with the world.
Nothing is wrong with me. I get out of the truck and avoid looking into
his sweet gentle eyes.
"Take care, Charlie."
I wish that he will come back and marry me. I think about what
I've said to him, replaying my words over and over in my mind.
I moved back to the reserve after my parents passed away into my
granny's old house. I belong here. The people accepted me back even
though I'm a Bill C 31, a reinstated Indian, a half-breed. I go out to the
porch and look out on the reserve. My relatives love me and I love
them. They give me the space I need. My cousins say I have the
cleanest house. I think my obsessive cleanliness is a result of my
mother's residential school experience. I still hear Mom. "Don't eat
like a savage. Don't be a dirty Indian." Those Grey nuns brainwashed
and shamed her. My dad was the worst when in a drunken rage he
would scream, "Stupid squaws. Whores. Cunts."
Mom could be a hoot, she had a great sense of humor. Dad
thought he was marrying an obedient Indian woman. I don't know
what happened to him as a child but I'm sure that the war warped his
brain. I can't remember him ever laughing. Mom thought she was
eloping with a savior and getting a better life beyond a reserve where
she had to ask permission from the Indian agent to leave.
Someone once told my mom that her dad walked on the prairies
for two days after she eloped. He didn't want her to marry a white
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Sherida Crane

man. He saw her intelligence and wanted more for her. He could see
my father's war demons. My father did have integrity and died telling
us he loved us. He asked us for forgiveness. I gave it to him. How
could I be angry? He was human. My mother, even though a chronic
alcoholic, gave me the greatest gift: she taught me to pray.
My parents loved me. I love them. It all is so complicated. I never
know how to feel. Sometimes I talk to the drug and alcohol counselor
about my problems but, I find forgetting much easier.
I walk outside to the porch and sit in a lawn chair. I ache for
Charlie and my loneliness sweeps out to the stars. I call on my grandmother to lift me up to the Holy place where the Creator, Star people,
and all my relations pray, sing, dance and weep for their crazy children
below. I want to feel clean. I need help to become a real person, not a
phony or a slut. I'm a impostor and only the Creator knows how bad I
am. I am to be denied true love. I love Charlie but I have to let him go
before I kill his soul like they did to me. I want to cry. I feel it in my
throat. I have to push it away. I will only hurt him when he rejects me.
I can't allow myself that. For his safety I can't let him in. I will never
be with him again. I'm so grateful for the one night. He is a good man
from a good family. I know it's just not right. I yearn for him already.
I love to write but I bum it before anyone can read it. Only the
spirits read my work.
I am the accountant for the band. I love to sit at my desk and
figure out the riddle of numbers. Today is Friday and I'm going to the
city tonight to get away from the reserve.
It only takes a few hours to get there. I get off the bus and walk
downtown to skid row. My brown sisters need my help. I blend in
easily - Indian woman, braids, tee shirt, granny sweater, jeans,
sneakers, and carrying a plastic bag. At the seedy Sundance Hotel a
balding man with tar-stained teeth and brown fingers sits behind a
desk. I see it in his eyes. He is a fucking pervert. All he sees is brown
skin and a pussy.
"I need a room. How much?"
"For you sweetheart, fifty bucks or free if you give me head."
I smile sweetly, hand him fifty dollars and see my hands tear into
his guts.
"I work weekends if you change your mind. Got ID? Where you
from honey?"

I hand him my late cousin's identification. She's been dead four
years. Murdered. We look alike. He writes down her name and status
umber then hands me a key. Room 120.
n "My home is the earth and the sky," I say.
He shoots me a look that shows an apparent lack of respect for
e Js it because of the color of my skin? He presses a button that
mbuzzes like a wasp and a door going to the rooms unlocks.
"Fucking smarty ass squaw," he mumbles.
I open the door and go upstairs. Shit. The room sits right on top
f the bar. Country music vibrates through a red cigarette burned
~arpet. The room is clean enough, a single bed and no television or
phone. At least it has a sink and a toilet. I open my bag and take out
a change of clothes, toothbrush and my hunting knife. Stupid fucks
named the bar after something sacred. No wonder they get the creeps,
the chronic and the hopeless.
I wash my face, then grab the knife. It is small but sharp. I put it
in my back pocket with my sweater covering it and go downstairs to
the pub. It smells of pinesol and piss in there. I order a beer and scan
the room. The Creator will lead me to the right man. I see my Aunt
Delia sitting in the comer, drunk and oblivious. Auntie hasn't been the
same since her son hung himself in a closet. He was only thirty four.
At Jason's wake, I sat next to my aunty Delia and the rest of his
relatives. Between the great wailing and tears we laughed over the
happy times. Uncle Grant talked about the horse and buggy days when
he needed a pass from the Indian Agent to leave the reserve; when
liquor laws were strict; and when snakes sang to my Holy grandmother. Jason had many friends, was a bookworm, was great with
horses, and was funny as hell. But he drank too much and became his
own worst enemy. Cousin Kathy was in town a few days before he
died. She said she saw Jason in the back of a police cruiser. He caught
her eye and waved like the Queen Mother. She said he had the wave
down pat. She couldn't stop laughing. That was Jason. My favorite
cuz. My sunshine, and my moon.
Jason was raging drunk, throwing rocks as I ran from his drunken
curses. I ran to the river and dove in. I was a lone beaver swimming in
still water. I see the slash scars on his face. He is hanging in a closet
of atoms, genetics jumbled, Indian ancestor's memory gone. In my
profound mourning I hack off my finger in one blow. It is painless, a

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Sherida Crane

small sacrifice. At the wake he stared at me through an open window
and whispered a story about the night they circled him then pissed on
him. "Dirty drunken Indian living off taxpayers money." After the
funeral I remain at Jason's grave, crying and pouring beer onto his
thirsty grave.
I remember how I tried to bring Auntie home on my last trip to the
city but she ditched me. Sitting next to her is one of the wicked men.
I know he is one of them and I need to save her. I stare at him with a
look that says "come fuck me, baby." His eyes move from my face to
my breasts to my legs. He walks over like he is real good but he reeks
of cheap cologne, has false teeth and wears a wide open shirt that
displays a revolting hairy, acne ridden chest. I notice that his
moustache is like Custers.
"Honey can I buy you a drink?" he asks.
In his mouth I see maggots. Sure, you hairy fuck.
"I would love a drink."
I can't stand it when old dirty men hit on me. I tried to explain it
to Charlie once but he didn't understand how it is to be an Indian
woman.
"Indian women are prey to the perverts of the world," I
proclaimed. "I'm a respectable woman. I work in the band office. I'm
smart. I dress modestly, and I'm only thirty. But I can't walk down the
city street. Cars will stop and drivers ask "how much?" They look at
me in the same way. I'm inhuman, a piece of dirt. They look through
me like I'm nothing, just a squaw."
Charlie just smiled at me. "It's just because you're beautiful and
stink pretty." He never seems to take issues seriously.
I kiss my Auntie goodbye but she is drunk and doesn't recognize
me. She tells me to piss off.
He says his name is John. I lead him out the back door into the
alley. When I look at the sky through the city lights I can see stars and
the Northern lights dancing for me. We stand behind an open trash bin.
He unbuttons my pants and kneels in front of me as if I were his God.
I let him go down on me.
He looks at me the same way my father did.
"That was good baby."
He stands up, takes a ten doll er bill out of his pocket and waves it
in front of my face. "You're going to have to work for this whore," he

hisses like a badger.
I kneel down and unzip his pants. I want to puke. He grabs my
hair and pushes himself into my mouth. I grab my knife and in shame
beg I Creator for forgiveness.
"Great One forgive me," I scream like a two year old while I hack
at him.
A little person in buckskin watches me and cries out, "But they
just want 1ove. "
John falls backwards in shock. Blood spurts from him and he begs
for mercy from his Indian squaw. He hears the wailing of spirits who
surround us with Great Mystery. A police car comes down the alley.
Spirits unseen cover their eyes, and his blood becomes water on my
clothes.
I go back into the Sundance and take Auntie out of the bar. The
clerk presses his magic button to open the door so we can go up to my
room.
He mumbles, "Fucking Indian lesbos. I knew you were a dyke."
I lay Auntie down on the bed and fall asleep on the floor. When I
wake up on Sunday afternoon, Auntie is gone. Was she here?
Sometimes when I think I am awake I'm only dreaming. The old man
told me I could walk in many worlds like the Sasquatch does.
I get off the midnight bus and walk the few miles to the reserve.
In the darkness, I look up at the stars and imagine that the stars are
singing around a drum. I feel in my heart the integrity of our people
and of the world. Holy peace is redeemed, born from an eagle whistle.
I am like a warrior. I will return to the battlefield that rages in the
cities.
As a child I was afraid of everything. No longer. The Creator
loves his children. I thank my lovers who have never heard my prayers
nor held my hand during a ceremony. A regal sparkle of light once
danced kindly over my head and taught me how to chase lost demons
into a bad medicine box. I don't have any luck with men. The old man
promised me to the Holy one. I see him in my dreams.

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This is my Holy song to the One Creator.
Great One committed to you oh my Creator
my Children believe in you through the darkness
alone in the darkness I pray that is all that matters
awake and my hangover sweeps out to the stars

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Sherida Crane

Barh Fraser

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and cosmos calling by name Holy grandmothers
and grandfathers to lift me to the love of
the mystery Creator Man From Above
help me in my numbness I'm afraid of you
The pregnant rattlesnake begged my grandmother
not to kill her, "Like you people there are good and
bad snakes. Don't kill me for the sins of others."

Blues
My girl
It's all gone
remember where we used to pick
nothing left
stumps clear-cut
I was surprised
at all the bush gone
I kept going along the road
then just about to Little Sandy
I found where they stopped cutting
I was able to pick a few blue berries
it scares me
pretty soon
there is going to be no place left
for us to pick.
Mathilda Frazer -August 22, 2003

Ohpahowipisim - Flying Up Moon
August 16, 1977

Gently, the picker
charms life off branches
cradles the small gift to her breast
grateful for life
the picker lifts her berries to the winds
then lays her offering in a place untouched.
The first berry to offer itself after a long winter
is the heart berry
the strawberry awakens the sleeper.
Raspberry
must be coaxed to drop its fruit
by thunder and lightening.
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Barh Fraser

Blueberries like hot days
Ohpahowipisim - Flying Up Moon
to ripen
that velvety blue divide.
Tart cranberries ripen
when the leaves dissolve
into golden hues with crimson highlights
and fingers will numb to beat the snowflakes
to gather the last offerings of summer.
A picker
never stays too long in one place
gathering here and there
always in search of a patch full with berries.

In a thicket of purple blue haze
where soft velvet incandescent
the reflection of blueberries
smothers the afternoon into its folds
reminds me of how beautiful I am
infused amongst the birch
and spruce laden with bear claw cones.
There they are
Blueberry queens
mom and grandma
bumps high in the air
in slow motion their hips sway
lost in a wonderful blue world
of togetherness.
At night
when you close your eyes
you can still see them
little blue spirits
I see radiant blue florescent dancing lights
some see giant grapes
others floating blueness.

A seasoned picker
lifts her pail to the sky
lets the wind
do the cleaning
carries away twigs and leaves
and adds the berries together.
Not one berry will pass my lips
before the frost touches them
after we have gathered
I will feast on the last handful
and savor each sweet juicy
azure kiss of creation.
There is calm silence in the bush
where thoughts
meander around trees
rattling leaves
while bees buzz around
adding their two bits.

I adjust the dial on the car radio
Transforming airwaves into sound
a man's voice
says "Elvis is dead!"
found at Graceland in his pj's
'Blue Suede Shoes' fills the silence
a stone sinks
further into my being
deeper than I ever felt
bluer than I ever been.
I yell my news
to Mom who stops to tell grandma
who Elvis was

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Barb Fraser

Barb Fraser

grandma said she knew him as the man
who looked like a handsome Cree.
When people ask me
where were you when Elvis died?
I will say
busy tickling blueberries
off their branches
without touching them

My girl
It's all gone
remember where we used to pick
nothing left
stumps clear-cut
I was surprised
at all the bush gone
I kept going along the road
then just about to Little Sandy
I found where they stopped cutting
I was able to pick a few blue berries
it scares me
soon
there is going to be no place left
for us to pick
Mathilda Frazer - August 22, 2003

160

Hell No
Bounced around the issues
bore no opinion
00 one ever asked what I thought.
Came from a long line of
don't say anything
just leave it alone.
Smiled like the Mona Lisa
as I was sliced and diced.
Because I could
I did just that
and into the sunset I arrived.
Found voices
that resonated
danced
that were confident
gifted
some voices were loud yet empty.
I found my voice
buried in the muskeg
it was there all this time
all the while I searched in the silence
and in the darkness
my voice
is where I had left it
after setting rabbit snares.
It was a strong voice
loud and clear
even carried a tune.

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Barb Fraser

I knew I could and I did
began to speak for the plants
ensure roots were intact
they even began to grow out of my back
I tried to hide them
but the branches grew thicker
deeper into the dirt
my roots took hold amongst
the old rocks.

heartbeats still sound
words were power
graceful bodies under pressure emerged
and our dreams came true.

I outgrew my safe space
Saw children
beg for food
while slot machines
stole grandparents
ate up communities
and spit out jealousy and greed
No matter how I much
I pounded my fist
pointed fingers
shook my head to say- Hell No!

The earth eating monsters
shifting gears
ate everything in sight
drank up all the water
devoured whole stands of trees in three minutes
destroyed my pharmacy, my food supply for generations
winds grew violent
fish bubbled to the surface
white moose charged
white raven shrieked
white cougar hissed
and white buffalo kicked up dirt
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ShoShona Kish

Window (Lyrics from CD "Red")
I wish I had a window
So I could see
The moon rise
Full body above me
And she' 11 move my waters
Like the sea
I wish I wish I
Had a window
But I will be dreaming of home
I will be traveling
In sleep
Unraveling
Each moment each hour
While the milkweed is grown
To flower
I will be traveling
I wish I had a door
That I could use
I'll leave it open a crack
For the spring to
Flow through
And swing it open wide
When the summer is new
Well I wish I wish I
Had a door
But I will be coming home soon
I will be traveling
In sleep
Between moments
Unraveling
Each hour each day
While blooms
Seeds to decay
I will be traveling
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Section 5

Dramatic Writings

Armand Garnet Ruffo

Four monologues from "A Windigo Tale"
"A Windigo Tale," the story of an Aboriginal woman, Doris,
who is given a second chance to defend her daughter, Lily,
against the evil Windigo spirit that consumed their lives.
Pressed by her old auntie, Evelyn, Doris elicits the help of
Lily's boyfriend, David, to exorcise the spirit of her abusive
Windigo-Husband.

DORIS
(Spot up on Doris as Glen Miller's "String of Pearls" comes up.)
Do you remember when you came to see me and took me out on the
town, and we danced and danced. The band played that song I liked so
much. (Hums "String of Pearls," Dances.) I was wearin' my new
dress. First new dress I ever owned. I first saw it walkin' past Simpson
Sears, and I thought oh, I'd love that dress. I closed my eyes, held my
breath, and could actually see myself in it, dancin' with you. And so I
decided, I would have it! I had to, because it meant more to me than
just a dress, it meant a new life, a new beginnin'. It was what they
called a midnight blue, and had these little chiffon petals woven into
the material. You complimented me and put your hands around my
waist. So small, you said, like a child's. (She stands and moves as
though looking at herself in a full length mirror) And that's when
you proposed. You were working steady and making good money. Me,
I'd been used to hard times. You were my way out. Or were you?-l'd
wanted to become part of the big crowd strolling up and down Yonge
Street, the longest street in the world! But you were gonna bring me
back here! Oh no, I didn't want that, but, all the same, I said, Okay, I'll
marry you. But you have to promise me one thing: to be a good man.
My poor father, bless him, never hurt a fly, he respected life. That's
what I said I wanted more than anything, a good man. And you said, I
am, and then I said, I do. (Exit Doris, who shuffles off stage. Music
goes down as CBC Radio announcer comes up. Light up.)
DAVID
(Spot up, David begins to read from his book. The sound of wind
may be used.) The Windigo beliefresides in actual experience which
is said to take many forms. While cannibal ideas, thoughts, anxieties

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Armand Garnet Ruffo

and stories were a traditional and accepted part of the belief system of
Native culture, nevertheless, the cannibal act was perceived with fear
and horror. An important element in the Windigo belief is spirit
possession. The individual regarded as a case of Windigo Psychosis is
one in whom the Windigo spirit has actually become lodged and taken
_a heart o~ ice. Furt~ermore,
possession of the body, made manifest
curative efforts consist largely of conJunng techniques designed to
dislodge the spirit. This necessarily involves the intervention of a
guardian spirit often taking the form of a totem, which w~ll ~ct ~n
behalf of the conjurer. The individual who becomes a Wmd1go is
usually convinced he has been possessed. He believes he has lost
permanent control over his own actions and the only possible s~lut~on
is death. He will plead for his own destruction and make no obJection
for his execution. (beat) But not always. At times, his actions prove
very much the contrary. (Short pause, he reflects and turns towards
Lily and takes her hand.)

?Y

LILY
When I was a little girl, ma and I went out in the bush one warm
August day to pick blueberries. I was sitting in a patch eating the sweet
fruit to my heart's content when I noticed a little bear cub not far away.
I toddled over to play with it. Of course I didn't realize the danger. And
ma didn't notice, being too busy picking berries. In almost an instant,
the female bear was rushing towards me. A few feet away, it bounded
to a halt. She must have realized that I was too small to do her baby
any harm, sensed I too was a baby. My own mother was frozen with
fear. She didn't move. She didn't call. She just stood there. After a
minute or so, the mother bear called to her little one and they scurried
off into the woods, and I began to cry. It was then that my mother came
and took me away in case the mother bear returned. But there really
was no need. The bear had charged because she was protecting her
child. I was no threat and therefore had been left untouched. But had I
meant harm, had I been a predator, she would have done everything in
her power to protect her baby.
EVELYN
(Pensively) Some things just can't be explained... let me put it this
way... let's say you been sittin' on a street comer smellin' piss an puke,
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Krystal Cook

cause all you been doin' is drinkin' whatever you can get your hands
on for years to forget an try to bury all that's happened to ya ... an' one
day you go to take your sticky little spot but you can't. Something's
happened, an' that part of your life, if you wanna call it life, is over...
who knows what happens? Maybe ya see a bird in a tree, or some grass
between the cracks of the street, that tell ya something, not in words ...
ya see, how do ya explain it? Lots of carryings-on we knew about.
Take ol' Cigarette Annie, called her that cause she always had a
cigarette drooping, kinda like this. (She takes out a cigarette and
droops from the corner of her lip. Removes the cigarette before
continuing.) She knew some powerful medicines that one ... could
suck the poison right outta ya. If ya had a complaint, she was the one
ya went to. Take the time my toes started bumin'. Oh, I could hardly
walk. 01' Annie said some healin prayers an' then got right down on
her knees an started suckin' my big toes. (Confidentially) Course I
washed em first. (beat) Then after a while, she spit out all this green
stuff into a hanky, put a pincha tobacco on the hanky an burnt it, and
low an behold my feet never bothered me no more. That's the way it
works some time, ya just gotta believe an (with a wave of her hand)
forget about explainin'. (Evelyn remains where she is, at home. She
takes the cigarette in her hand and breaks it up and holds the
tobacco for a second in her left hand and prays silently before
putting it into the stove.)

***

Let Me Outta Here
This Drama piece was written and performed by Krystal Cook
at the opening night of the "To Remain At A Distance Art
Show" at the A Space Gallery in Victoria, B.C. on July 6, 200 I.

Blackout. Audio playing of Ravens beaks pecking for 10 seconds.
Voice over begins.
VILLAGE VOICE: (Voice over from behind oversized entrance door).
LET ME OUTTA HERE! Piles and piles of rotting raven beaks peck
at concrete. Cutting and cawing to get inside the earth. Moving in
sssslllllloooooooooowwww sticky motions taunting and teasing
pointy british voices to speak in tongues. Blood dialects of massacre
keep me AwAy. The hidden holocaust haunts my belly. I pierce a tear
for all the unloved children of the brutal rape of spirit. I sacrifice my
flesh to the Salmon Belly King for the rhythm of Kwak'wala to belt in
my bones again. Red Spots Up. Enter.
WILD WOMAN:
Costume: Mask/red and black negligee/bare feet/pregnant belly/
She lurks and movements from the depths of Tsamus. Seeking refuge
among the souls of marching cedars. Chewing and gnawing at the
moist muddy roots. Cultivating her teeth into shiny abalone weapons
of war. Burping and moaning with satisfaction at the rise of brown
body memory transforming into scent. She scowers the poisonous air
for lost children floating in nightmares they can't wake up from. She
straddles her smoldering, hairy legs around the parliament buildings
and haunts them with the lusty power of her red high heels. She recreates herself in orange paint, and rituals herself to shape shift into
dragonfly brilliance with the slickness of her green light. Exit.
Change. Macho Man Music Interlude. Enter. Purple Spots Up.
TRICKSTER:
Costume: Mask/Brown leather jacket/Silver Grass skirt/Black Boots/
Gangster Hat/
My balls are soooooooooo HUGE. I can't get close to anyone. They
are always in the way. Banging and busting blood around. Protecting
the women and children from invisible demons that desire to devour.

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Suave, sexy men glide in macho vibrations all around me and slide
slickness around the people with bural cream and Gleena. They dance
a hypnotic trance of mutilated manhood and ancient beauty (repeat last
line 4 xs). Exit. Change. I'm Too Sexy Music Interlude. Enter. Blue
Spots Up.
TRIBAL FUNK MAMA
Costume: Mask/Blue Wig/Sarong/Bare feet/Black Fur Jacket/
Tribal Funk Mama on the creative tip here with the soul vibrations
from Village Voice. Yea, that sound, that sound, that SOUND the
Salmon make when they are stalking me with their beauty and
lusciousness. That deep murmuring of song that transports me back to
the ocean depths. Where the seahorse's strip tease their magic all over
the ocean floor and orca chants serenade loved ones back to the sea
world. Back home to sensual shimmering mermaid royalty that rock
the underworld into seaweed funk. I feel my soul filling up with salt,
the raw, thick, course kind flaking from the ocean scalp into my blood
injecting my memory with where my ancestors fished. I feel
Kwakwaka 'wakw rhythms stroking my bones to movement this Island,
to rip it open, and let it transform, shape shift and transcend its glory
and richness into sultry memories of original dream. Tribal Funk
Mama here orating Village Voice into deep jazzy state of unbreakable
DNA umbilical cord to LOVE. Halakasla. Exit. Blackout.

Kwak'wala word meaning place of many churches which Victoria, B.C. has become
known as to many Kwakwaka 'wakw people.
Kwak'wala word for Ooligan oil.

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Section 6

Images

Lee Claremont

Lee Claremont

Raven Magic

Celebration

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Lee Claremont

Lee Claremont

: : .. : . . .
. . .. .. . ....... : :

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Fancy Dancer

Coming Out to Play at Midnight

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Margaret Orr

Margaret Orr

Walk into Life

Walk into Life #4

(Acrylic)

(copper plate print)

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Margaret Orr

Jennifer Petahtegoose

Shaenshe

Grass Dancer

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Jennifer Petahtegoose

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Woman Sitting

Mother and Baby

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A Walk in My Moccasins

Untitled

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Photo Gal/e,y

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Drew Hayden Taylor

Dawn Russel

Krystal Cook
Karen Olson

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En 'owkin Babies

En 'owkin Babies

Nimkish O'Sullivan Young Ing
was one of the first En' ow kin
babies born in 1993. Born to Greg
Young-Ing and Gunargie
O'Sullivan.
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Kwasun is the son of Krystal
Cook and Harvey Thomas.
Ashala, Sherida, Willie, Emma-Jane and
Mary Rose

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Mary-Rose, Emma-Jane and Willie Cohen
are the children of Bill Cohen and Sherida
Crane. They are also sibling to Kwanita and
Tally, as well as big sister Ashala.

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Haley Tina Regan
Born; January 23/97
To Dawn Russell and Ron Regan.

Autumn Rain was born to
Leanne Flett Kruger and
John Kruger.

Sage was born to
Leanne Flett Kruger and
John Kruger.

Sky
Parents, En'owkin Students:
ShoShona Kish
and Rene Petal/Sandy.

Hannah Mnookmi
daughter of Jennifer
Petahtegoose.

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Storm and Grace are the
children of Vera Wabegijig
and Larry Nicholas
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Section 6

Biographies

Biographies

Jeannette Christine Armstrong, Director of the En'owkin Centre
and a member of the Okanagan Nation, Jeannette is a recognized
Canadian author, artist and an advocate of Indigenous Peoples rights.
One of her two chilren's books won the Children's Book Centre "Our
Choice" award. She has published a critically acclaimed novel Slash,
Whispering In Shadows, a collection of poetry Breath Tracks and
collaborated with Douglas Cardinal on the book Native Creative
Process. Jeannette co-edited the book Native Poetry in Canada: A
Contemporary Anthology as well as edited Looking at the Words ofour
People: First Nations Analysis of Literature. She has published
fiction, poetry and articles in a wide variety of journals and anthologies. She has a BFA, First Class, from the University of Victoria.
Jeannette was recently distinguished with an Honourary Doctorate of
Letters from St. Thomas University, Fredericton.
Suzi Bekkattla is from St George's Hill, Saskatchewan and now lives
in Vancouver BC. She is proud to be fluent in the Dene language.
Leaving En'owkin Center in 1999, and completing a third year of a
Bachelors of Education at the University of Saskatchewan, Suzi
journeyed to Hong Kong to teach ESL. Upon returning to Canada, she
attended the Aboriginal Film School at the Native Education Center.
She has worked at Young Eagles Healing Lodge youth Treatment
Center in Vancouver and has volunteered at Potters Place Mission
Center. Currently Suzi works as a First Nations Support worker for the
Vancouver School Board. Her dreams are to open a library in Northern
Saskatchewan, interview elders and utilize their knowledge to write,
and to make films.
Gordon Bird is from Lac La Ronge, Saskatchewan. Born August 13,
1967, he has a Cree and French background. A recovering alcoholic
and drug addict, April 11, 2004 will be nine years of sobriety for
Gordon. His Spirit name is Circle Dancing Eagle. He has had his
poetry published and played the lead role in the play Elvis Goodrunner.
He has worked as a lighting technician for theaters. He has a deep
appreciation for music, art and all artistic genre's. He loves to write
drama and has a dream to one day become a film director. "I learn a
lot from being out on the land. There are many valuable lessons that
come from the land about how to live upon Mother Earth."

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Biographies

Trevor Cameron is Metis. He is an independant filmmaker and
writer. He has a certificate of recomendation in film making from the
Vancouver Film School.

Sherida Crane is a Blackfoot/mixed blood writer of the Siksika
Nation in Alberta. She graduated from the En' ow kin in 1997 where
she received the William Armstrong Scholarship for Poetry and the
Simon Lucas Jr. Memorial Scholarship. Her play "Shifting Savage
Moods" was workshopped in Calgary. She is currently working on a
collection of poetry and short stories. Her poetry and stories reflects
personal spiritual struggles and healing. Sherida and her amazing
children, Ashala 14, Mary-Rose 6, Emma 4, and baby Willy I 1/2reside
in the Similkameen Valley, BC.

Lee Claremont was born in Woodstock, Ontario of Mohawk and Irish
ancestry. She is a member of the Six Nations in Oshweken, Ontario.
Lee now resides in Kelowna, BC. She is well known for her vibrant
paintings. Her work can be found in collections in Europe, the Orient
and North America. Lee keeps busy teaching art at the En'owkin
Center, as well as being a professsional artist and enjoying her three
daughters and six grandchildren.
Crystal Lee Clark is from Fort McMurray, Alberta. She has recently
completed an Education degree from the University of British
Columbia with support from the Metis Nation of Vancouver. Crystal
has a Bachelor of Fine Arts Degree from the University of Victoria,
and has also completed a New Media Degree from Vancouver Film
School with a scholarship from the BC Festival of the Arts. Crystal is
also a graduate of the En'owkin's Creative Writing and Fine Arts
program. While in Vancouver, she worked with a team of youth to
create a public art site based on sustainability practices of the past and
present to build a healthy future (www.collective-echoes.org). She is
now teaching and plans to continue writing and creating visual art.
Brent Peacock-Cohen is an Okanagan poet currently completing his
Ph D at Ohio State University. His poetry attempts to connect intellectualism, tradition and self-determination. Brent is a former
En'owkin instructor who taught in the Indigenous Political
Development and Leadership program. He hopes his life's journey
brings him back to the En'owkin Centre.
Krystal Cook is a Kwakwaka'wakw Woman from the Namgis First
Nation of Alert Bay, BC. She is a graduate of the En'owkin
International School of Writing (UVIC) and the Centre for Indigenous
Theatres' Native Theatre School Program. She is a performance artist,
poet, facilitator of Healing through the Arts and the mother to two
sons, K wasun and Rayn.

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Barb Fraser is a Cree woman from northern Saskatchewan. The
eldest of eight, she spent her childhood playing with the past in a
museum owned by parents John and Mathilda. Barb is a blues singer
who graduated from En' owkin in 1992 then travelled to Germany and
Switzerland. She was published in literary and environmental journals
and produced a radio show. Barb completed a BA in Botany and
Native Studies and received a certificate in Environmental Education .
Currently, she is a Manager at the Sciences Program with the
Federation of Saskatchewan Indian Nations where she promotes the
art of Traditional Science. Future plans include a Masters degree, a
one-woman show, a blues CD and to lead a happy life after forty.
Wil George is from the Tsleil Wauth Nation (Burrard Indian Band) .
He studies Writing and English Literature at UVIC. Wil has been
published in various anthologies such as Gatherings: En 'owkin
Journal of First North American Peoples and Mocambo Nights .
Barbara 'Helen' Hill is a writer and visual artist from Six Nations of
the Grand River Territory in Southern Ontario, Canada. She is a
Cayuga/Mohawk woman, mother of three and grandmother of two
beautiful granddaughters. After graduating with an MA in American
Studies, Helen changed careers due to ill health and started to focus
more on her artwork. Helen is the author of Shaking the Rattle:
Healing the Trauma of Colonization, now in its second edition, and
has stories and poems published in various anthologies. She is the
owner/operator of Shadyhat Books, Publishing and Art Company.
Helen has ventured into fibre and textile art as a new medium.

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Biographies

Biographies

William Horne is a member of the Sannich Indian Band. He is an
artist who attended the Foundations in Indigenous Fine Arts Program
at the En'owkin Centre.

influenced by her First Nation Okanagan heritage. She has a certificate
in Indigenous Fine Arts from the En'owkin Centre and plans to
continue her education at the University of Victoria

Tracey Jack is an award winning broadcast journalist and producer
for television news and documentaries. She is a member of the
Okanagan Nation, born and raised on the Penticton Indian Band.
Currently she is the Program Director for the Indigenous Arts Service
Organization. Mrs.Jack has been published in Raven's Eye (AMMSA)
and Aboriginal Voices. Her current works include producing segments
for the CHBC-Television program "Okanagan Now." Mrs. Jack was
awarded First and Second place for the documentaries "Crying in the
Dark" and "REZcovery" at the 2003 International Native American
Journalists Association conference. Mrs. Jack has been granted the
Award of Excellence as a finalist for the British Columbia Association
of Broadcasters and the Canadian Association of Broadcasters Award.
She has recently been granted a Bell Media/APTN scholarship from
Ryerson Polytech to establish programming with CBC Radio on a
freelance basis. Her lifelong passion is to balance stories from an
Aboriginal perspective that creates dialogue to dispel ignorance and
racism.

Maurice Kenny is a Mohawk born in Watertown, NY, in 1929. He
was educated at Butler University, St. Lawrence University and New
York University. Maurice has been the co-editor of the literary review
magazine Contact/II, editor/publisher of Strawberry Press and poetry
editor of Adirondac Magazine, Poet-in-Residence at North Country
Community College and visiting professor at the University of
Oklahoma, and the En'owkin Centre in Canada. Maurice's work has
been published in journals, including American Indian Quarterly, Blue
Cloud Quarterly and The New York Times. In 2000, Maurice received
the Elder Recognition Award from the Wordcraft Circle of Native
Writers. His book of poems, Blackrobe: Isaac Jogues, B. March 11,
1607, D. October 18, 1646 was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.
Maurice is the recipient of a National Public Radio Award for
Broadcasting. His book The Mama Poems received the American
Book Award in 1984.

ShoShona Kish is an Anishinabekwe singer/ song writer and spoken
word artist from Toronto, Canada. Her powerful earthy voice and
diverse musical style are influenced by her First Nations roots as well
as soul, folk, blues and jazz. Her songs speak about the beauty and
complexity of her people and of the landscape we all share as part of
this creation. She has hosted and performed in festivals and conferences across North America, traveled to Hawaii and throughout
Canada to lend her voice to several CD recordings. She studied music
at Carleton University and Creative Writing at the En'owkin
International School of Writing in British Columbia. Currently, she is
working on her first solo CD project with the support of the Canada
Council for the Arts and a collaborative project fusing the talents of
international Indigenous artists to create a unique new sound.

Joy Kogawa is the author of the critically acclaimed novel Obasan.
Her most recent works are a novel, The Rain Ascends by Penguin and
a selection of poems, A Garden ofAnchors by Mosaic; both published
in 2003. She is currently rewriting a second novel, ltsuka. She is active
in the community currency movement, and involved with The Toronto
Dollar.
Leanne Flett Kruger is Metis of the Flett family in Northern
Manitoba. Leanne is a graduate of the En'owkin Centre's Creative
Writing Program. She has taken courses in publishing at Simon Fraser
University and works as the Production and Distribution Manager of
Theytus Books Ltd. Her daughters Sage and Autumn Rain are
members of the Okanagan Nation and they enjoy spending time in the
En'owkin Centre's gathering space.

Robyn Kruger is an Interdisciplinary Arts Performer. She works with
contemporary mythical design concepts and her work reflects and is

Joseph Thomas Wayne Kruger is an Okanagan/Shuswap living on
the Penticton Indian Band Reserve. Born on October 4, 1981. The
need to learn and explore new ideas and ways of thinking is the

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motivation for everything he does. His wntmg is influenced by
Indigenous cultures and philosophies, Eastern Philosophies, and his
own day-to-day observations. He currently attends the En' ow kin
Centre.
Dr. Hartmut Lutz is the Chair of American and Canadian Studies at
the University of Greifswald in Germany and has been teaching
Canadian literature there since 1994. He obtained a doctorate magna
cum laude in English literature from Tubingen University and taught
British and American Studies at Osnabrock University from 1975 to
1994. He has visited Canada on several extended research trips funded
by the Canadian Government Faculty Research and Faculty Enrichment
Programs. He has also researched and taught in Native Studies at the
University of California Davis, the First Nations University of Canada
(Regina) and Dartmouth College. The research fields studied by Dr.
Lutz cover an impressive range, with particular focus on Canadian
Aboriginal literature. Dr. Lutz has worked assiduously to understand
and promote Canadian culture, especially an indigenous perspective
on Aboriginal literatures.
Rasunah Marsden of Anishinabe and French ancestry was born in
Brandon, Manitoba and obtained teacher training and post graduate
degrees in Fine Arts and Design. Rasunah wrote and taught overseas
in the cities Brisbane, Jakarta, Perth and Sydney. She taught at the
En'owkin Centre for several years until accepting a position to coordinate the Digital Film and Television program at the Native Education
Center in Vancouver where she and her four grown children reside.
Rasunah is a widely anthologized Aboriginal writer with several
poems featured in Native Poetry in Canada (2001). She edited Crisp
Blue Edges (2000), a first collection of Aboriginal creative non-fiction
in North America. Currently she continues as chair and webmaster of
the Subud Writer's International (SWI) website.

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later as editor of The Long Haul, an anti-poverty newspaper. Recently,
Nikki was featured on the Redwire Native Magazine's 'Our Voice is
Our Weapon and Our Bullets are the Truth' CD. Nikki is Tlinglit on
her mother's side and her father is from Trinidad. This year, she will
be completing a Bachelor of Arts in English at Okanagan University.
Karen W. Olson is Cree/Ojibway from the Peguis First Nation in
Manitoba. A former journalist with CBC Radio, she also wrote
freelance articles for Weetamah, Windspeaker and First Perspective. A
single parent to Krista Rose, Karen graduated from the En'owkin
Centre in 1999 as a recipient of the Simon Lucas Jr. award for fiction.
After graduating from the University of Victoria with a BFA, she
returned to the En'owkin Centre as the creative arts instructor in 2002.
Karen has published two short stories and was awarded a Canada
Council grant to continue work on a novel set in the pow wow world.
Karen is also writing a young adult historical novel about the 1907
illegal surrender of St. Peter's Indian Reserve.
Margaret Orr is Cree, born March 11, 1962, in Prince Albert
Saskatchewan and grew up on the coastline of James Bay in Northern
Quebec where her mother, Gracie Snowboy, was raised. She graduated
with a fine arts degree at CEGEP in Hull, 1993 and from
Saskatchewan Indian Federated College with a Bachelor of Fine Arts
Degree in 1998. Margaret graduated from the En'owkin Centre's
Creative Writing program in 200 I and spent one year in the
Indigenous Political Development and Leadership program which she
completed in 2002. Much of Margaret's knowledge stems from the
land, she draws inspiration from all parts of the country she travels
with her children.
Gunargie O'Sullivan is from the Kwakuilth Nation, in Alert Bay. She
is a performer and the proud mother of a daughter, Nimkish. Gunargie
studied at the En'owkin to explore her talents as a visual artist.

Nikki Maier graduated from the En'owkin's writing program in 1997.
"The En'owkin is an amazing place to start university!" Nikki
attended the University of Victoria for third year writing studies with
a full scholarship from the National Aboriginal Achievement
Foundation. Nikki worked at Redwire Native Youth Media office, and

Jennifer Petahtegoose is a member of the Elk Clan of Whitefish Lake
First Nation, Ojibway and British ancestry. She is a graduate of
En'owkin's Fine Arts Program. She holds a Bachelor of Education and
a Bachelor of Arts in Psychology and Native Studies. Presently she

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teaches Grade 5/6 in Sudbury and is the proud mother of Hannah
Mnookmi. Jennifer is a fancy shawl dancer. Her inspiration comes
from the beautiful people she has met, through the shimmer of colors
inside the pow wow circle and through her dreams. Her influences as
a painter include Norval Morrisseau, George Littlechild, Arthur
Shilling, and Wassily Kandinsky. Jennifer had her first solo art show
at the Ojibwe Cultural Foundation in Manitoulin Island in July 2002.

Brenda Prince (Middle of the Sky Woman) is Anishinabe, born and
raised in Winnipeg, Manitoba. She has lived in Calgary, Victoria and
Penticton and she now makes her home in Vancouver, BC. She graduated from the En'owkin School of Writing in 1996 and is now a 4th
year English Major at UBC and works in the Downtown Eastside as a
Researcher/Evaluator. Forty years young, she is the proud mother of
Raven, Robin and Dakota, and proud grandmother to Tatiana and
loves her cat Poozhas.
Graham Scott Proulx is a misplaced Metis writer, artist and educator.
Hailing from the lands of the Odawa, he now resides in Sto:lo territory
in the Greater Vancouver area with his cat, Raven. The En'owkin
Centre forever altered his life course; the intensive creative and decolonizing experience empowered him to share the sacred gift of knowledge with generations to come. Thanks to a few friends and family
members (teachers in their own right) who are able to tolerate him he
has begun to sprout roots. The invaluable and continued support,
inspiration and influence of his mentors and peers at En'owkin helped
procure a path that he never dreamed possible to walk.
KWukWukWstxw.

Fred Roberds is a member of the N'kmapls First Nation in Vernon,
BC. Fred graduated from the En' owkin Centre in 1999 with a Visual
Arts certificate and in 2002 with a Creative Writing certificate. He has
been painting and drawing since he was a young boy. He describes his
writing style as an exploration of the darker side of human nature.

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Dawn M. Russell works for the Surrey School District as an
Aboriginal Support Worker, sharing her experiences as a member of
the Okanagan Nation. Dawn and her daughter, Haley, are active in
their community and strive to be positive role models.
Dennis Saddleman was a student of the En' owkin Centre, from 1995
to 1997. He went home to write poems and stories about himself.
Dennis has published some work with First Nation's newsletters and
newspapers. Several times, he was a keynote speaker at Residential
School conferences. His biggest achievement was being elected as a
Band Councilor at his communities Chief and Council election.
Dennis often finds himself back at the En'owkin Centre to see how
everyone is doing.

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Sharron Proulx is Nokomis to Willow & Jessinia, and mum to
Graham, Barb & Adrian. She is published in literary journals and has
written two books, Where the Rivers Join: A Personal Account of
Healing from Ritual Abuse (under a pseudonym) and What The Auntys
Say. Both books were short listed for national awards. Meegwich to
Jeannette Armstrong for her incredible talent as a writer and a mentor
to so many of our youth.

Armand Garnet Ruffo is from Northern Ontario and is a member of
the Biscotasing branch of the Sagamok First Nation. his work is
strongly influenced by his Anishnaabe heritage. Currently he resides
in Ottawa where he teaches in the Department of English Language
and Literature at Carleton University. Published works include: At
Geronimo s Grave, Grey Owl: The Mystery of Archie Belaney and
Opening in the Sky.

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Lillian Sam is a graduate of the Creative Writing Program at the
En'owkin Centre. She is from the Carrier Nation. She worked extensively to compile and transcribe stories from her Elders for the book
Nak'azdli Elders Speak Nak'azdli t'enne Yahulduk.
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Lorne Joseph Simon, 1960-1994. Born on the Big Cove Reserve in
New Brunswick and raised according to Mi'kmaq traditions, Lome
was fluent in speaking and writing his language. He graduated from
the En'owkin School of Writing in 1992. Lorne was the first En'owkin
writing student to be published by Theytus Books. While his book was
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in final production Lome was killed in a car accident on October 8,
1994. Stones and Switches was released after his death and has since
received critical acclaim.

Drew Hayden Taylor is an award winning playwright, author,
journalist, film maker and lecturer. During the last two decades, over
fifty-five productions of Drew's plays have been shown in Canada, the
United States and Europe. In film and video, Drew has directed three
documentaries including the very popular National Film Board
production, Redskins Tricksters and Puppy Stew, an examination of
Native humour. Several of his thirteen books including Funny You
Don 't Look Like One and Toronto at Dreamer's Rock, are in multiple
printings and are used in school curriculum across Canada. Drew is an
Ojibway from Ontario's Curve Lake First Nations in central Ontario.
Richard Van Camp was born and raised in Fort Smith, NWT, and is
a member of the Dogrib Nation. He is the author of The Lesser
Blessed, Angel Wing Splash Pattern and two children's books A Man
Called Raven and Whats the Most Beautiful Thing You Know About
Horses?
Vera Wabegijig is a twenty-nine year old Scorpio Anishnawbe writer,
videographer, and mother of two most beautiful girls, Storm and
Grace. She lives in Vancouver, BC and loves the words, rhythms and
beats that naturally occur and surround her - this is where her inspiration comes from.
Jacqueline Wachell is a Metis artist and mother of three. She was a
student of the En'owkin Centre NAPAT program. She works in many
artistic disciplines and had her work featured at the 2003 Splitting the
Sky Arts Festival.

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The En' owkin Centre
Indigenous School of Writing and Arts
The En'owkin Indigenous Fine Arts and Writing Program is a
one year credit program leading to a Foundations in Indigenous
Fine Arts Certificate, jointly awarded by the En'owkin Centre
and the University of Victoria. Established Aboriginal writers,
dramatists and visual artists work directly with the students to
explore their own unique voice, thereby promoting understanding of the beauty and complexity of Aboriginal Peoples.
Courses focus on techniques and forms of creative expression in
Poetry, Fiction, Drama, Creative Non-fiction and Visual Arts.
For a full calendar and registration information contact:
Registrar
En'owkin Centre
Lot 45, Green Mountain Road.
RR #2, Site 50, Comp.8
Penticton, BC
V2A-6J7
Phone: (250) 493-7181
Fax (250) 493-5302
email: enowkin@vip.net
www.enowkincentre.ca

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