Gatherings Volume 13
The En'owkin Journal of
First North American Peoples

Reconciliation
Elders as Knowledge Keepers

Fall 2002

Editors: Leanne Flett Kruger
and Bemelda Wheeler
With special guest foreword
by Leonard Peltier

Theytus Books Ltd.
Penticton, BC

Gatherings
The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples Volume 13
2002
Copyright © for the authors
National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

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Main entry under title:

Gatherings
Volume 13

Gatherings

Reconciliation
Elders as Knowledge Keepers

Annual.
ISSN 1180-0666
ISBN 1-894778-06-5 (v. 13)
1. Canadian literature (English)--Indian authors--Periodicals.* 2.
Canadian literature (English)--Periodicals.* 3. American literature--Indian
authors-- Periodicals. 4. American literature--Periodicals. I. En' owkin
International School of Writing. II. En' owkin Centre.
PS8235.16G35
C810.8'0897
CS91-031483-7
PR9194.5.15G35

Editorial Committee: Leanne Flett Kruger and
Bernelda Wheeler
Cover Painting: Julie Flett
Layout and Design: Leanne Flett Kruger
Proofing: Chick Gabriel, Audrey Huntley and Greg Young-Ing
Please send submissions and letters to
Gatherings,
En' owkin Centre, R.R.#2, Site 50, Comp. 8, V2A 6J7, Canada.
Previously published works are not considered.

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

BRITISH
•

COLUMBIA
ARTS COUNCIL

Canada

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Table of Contents

Table of Contents
First Words

from Leonard Peltier

Section 4 - Honouring

A Message to Our Young People / 7
Richard O' Halloran
Yvonne Beaver
Darliea Dorey
Janet Marie Rogers
Dawna Elaine Page
Dawna Elaine Page
Dawna Elaine Page
Lesley Belleau
Lesley Belleau
Arnold James Isbister
John Berry
John Berry
John Berry
William H Flowers
Minnie Matoush

Section 1 - Lessons
Maxine Matilpi
Drew Hayden Taylor
Rebeka Tabobondung
Barbara-Helen Hill
Brent Peacock-Cohen
Richard Green
Dawn Russell
Dawna Elaine Page
Robert Vincent Harris
Vera Newman
Janet Marie Rogers

Mek-ee-da-ga (Put a Blanket on Someone
Sleeping) / 12
My Elder is Better Than Your Elder/ 14
Reconciliation / 17
My Take on the Term 'Elder'/ 18
Coyote the Scientist / 22
Grandpa's Mystique/ 24
Lumps and Bumps / 28
Juniper Berries / 30
Pocahontas Barbie / 32
Making Waves/ 33
The Last Flood / 35

Section 2 - Gifts

Section 5 - International and
Words from our Youth

Roxanne Lindley
Richard O 'Halloran
Robert Vincent Harris
Brent Peacock-Cohen

The Gift/ 38
Believe/ 44
Awakenings / 45
The Reason Why We Do and The Reason
Why We Don't / 46
Gordon de Frane
Indian Summer / 49
John Garfield Barlow
The Gift/ 60
Marcelle Marie Gareau The Keeper of Tradition / 64
Eric Ostrowidzki
Ruby Mossflower's Magic Quilt/ 67
Dawna Elaine Page
Familiar / 72

Section 3 - Knowledge
Helen-Anne Embry
John Berry
Naomi Walser
Steve Russell
Vera Manuel
Charlotte Mearns
Karen Pheasant
Julaine Dokis
Brent Peacock-Cohen

The Knowledge/ 76
Old Man/ 77
A Day in the Life of an Elder / 78
What Indians Want I 80
Justice/ 82
Knowledge Keepers / 85
Untitled / 88
Wisdom/ 91
Sweetness of Samson's Lion/ 92

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Thank You/ 96
For The Little Sisters / 97
Spirituality / 98
Blanket Statements / 100
Bloodline/ 101
For All My Relations/ 102
March Moon / 104
Silent Drum / 105
Indian Eyes / 108
Going Home / 109
Homelands / 113
Sundown/ 114
Reflections on Water / 115
Wings of the Morning I 116
Dear Beloved Child/ 120

!

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International:
Mena Mac
Youth:
Kawennenhawi Nelson
Elizabeth Kruger
Elizabeth Kruger
Elizabeth Kruger
Preston Gregoire
Anita Louie
Audrey Avery
Vanessa Nelson
Joel Morgan
Joel Morgan
Joel Morgan
Joel Morgan
Jamie L. John
Stephanie L Squakin

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Reconciliation: Elders as Knowledge Keepers/ 125
Reunited Hearts/ 129
Prayer/ 133
Us and Stickgame / 134
When That Day Comes/ 136
Residential School/ 138
When I.../ 139
One Unlucky Day / 140
Rokstentsherak:sen / 144
Cedar/ 147
Fire/ 148
Eagle/ 149
Water/ 150
Modern Warrior / 151
Tupa (Great Grandmother)/ 154

Biographies / 158

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-

Leonard Peltier

Leonard Peltier

A Message to Our Young People
from Leonard Peltier
Another lockdown. There will be no Sweat. Not today. I sit alone in
my cell, waiting for that door to be mercifully opened again, and my
thoughts tum to you.
The editors of Gatherings honored me by inviting me - an Elder,
they said (smile) - to write an article about reconciliation for our
young people. I have thought long and hard about what I should say to
you.
What can I say that will heal the physical, emotional and spiritual
wounds caused by the mistreatment of our peoples by others? And
what about the harm we have done to one another and to ourselves?
What magic words can I say to you, our youth, that will join our hearts
and souls and make us all one family - as we are supposed to be and
as it was in generations past?
I decided to speak to you from my heart. There is no other way.
I can only tell you what I myself have seen, the experiences of my
generation.
As a young child in a boarding school, I was taught - through
outright brutality - that my people had been saved from a life of pure
savagery. It was my own people, I was told, who indiscriminately
killed one another. There were only a handful ofus left, after all, when
our saviors found us (smile). We sold our mothers, sisters and daughters into slavery. We practiced a heathen religion. We had no political
structure by which to govern our Nations. We were ruled by madmen
who executed those who committed only minor violations of our
customs. The list of our crimes, believe me, was endless. I and my
fellow students became ashamed of our black hair, our brown skin, our
Native features, our names, our languages, our religion, our culture
and our history. We were beaten into submission. We became disconnected from Mother Earth, our people, ourselves. We tried to ease the
pain with alcohol, glue, gasoline and - some of us - with hard drugs.
Others of us chose a quicker means of suicide. We became hand6

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Leonard Peltier

Leonard Peltier

out Indians. Everything we had believed in and practiced as parents
and grandparents down through the centuries became redundant in our
hearts and minds. Many of us forgot how to love and protect our
children, our people and our Nations.
Then, we thankfully heard the whispers of our Elders.
We, the Indigenous peoples of the northern hemisphere, were first
called Indians by Christopher Columbus and his crew of sailors when
in 1492, lost at sea, they landed on our shores. It seems this is when
all our troubles began.
In only a short one hundred years, our population declined. We
were as trees in an out-of-control forest fire. Our Nations became as
ashes from our fire pits.
In the name of civilization, the destruction of our peoples and our
ways continued into the 20th century. Our invaders forced their way of
life, culture and religion on us. And, of course, they rewrote our
history.
Through overheard conversations between our Nations' grandmothers and grandfathers, we came to know that there had been
millions of us. Ours were advanced civilizations. Some of our peoples
even built large cities - like the one near to what is now known as St.
Louis, Missouri. Some of our ancestors built monuments thousands of
feet high. Others carved dwellings into the mountainsides. Our knowledge of agriculture and medicine far exceeded that of the Europeans.
In some Nations, the wise clan mothers among us decided the
important issues our people faced. All were accepted, especially those
who were gifted. We were connected, related - to sky and earth, to all
creatures, to all humankind.
When those of my generation heard these truths, a light ignited
within us. Speaking from our hearts, our Elders told us, is our first
duty - our first obligation to ourselves and to our peoples. So, we
spoke out - against oppression, injustice, the destruction of our culture
and the violation of Mother Earth. We resisted - we resist still because we remembered the most important lesson of all. Each of us
must be a survivor.
That resistance was our first step towards reconciliation - the
restoration of harmony with the Great Spirit, within ourselves, among
each other, and between all of humankind.
Reconciliation - The Great Healing - begins with each and every
one ofus.
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First, honour sky and earth. Look not to man-made laws for
justice but to the natural laws of the Great Mystery. By that law, there
will be freedom for all of us to live in peace and harmony.
We must show respect towards others but, most of all, for
ourselves. Be proud. Embrace your culture and never regret being who
you are - an Indian. Love yourself.
Love your people, too. Remember who you are. Remember the
old ways. Teach your children and their children. Be good to one
another. And remember the Elders.
The Elders of your Nations ask for your love and understanding.
We are ordinary, often flawed, and may even have done you wrong in
times past. Let us show you that we have become better human beings.
Let us show you that we love you. I love you. My life is yours.
Love, also, the diversity of humanity. Look upon other peoples of
the Earth with respect and tolerance instead of prejudice, distrust, and
hatred. How else can we live as the Creator intended, as sisters and
brothers, all of one human family?
Yours is not a legacy of hopelessness and despair, but of strength
and resiliency. Continue the struggle against selfishness and weakness
so that our peoples may live. We can do this together - your generation and mine. Remember what Sitting Bull said, "As individual
fingers we can easily be broken, but all together we make a mighty
fist." Together, we will survive.
Mitakuye Oyasin,
In the Spirit of Crazy Horse,

Leonard Peltier
A limited edition series of 16' x 20' canvas reproductions of three of
Leonard's paintings are being offered for sale to help raise funds so he can
continue his fight for freedom. (See author Biography on page 159)

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Section 1
Lessons

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Maxine Matilpi

Maxine Matilpi

Mek-ee-da-ga (Putting a Blanket on Someone Sleeping)
Over the years, I've heard it said that you can't really understand a
culture without also understanding the language. My 95-year-old
Kwakiutl grandfather, Papa (Willie Hunt), is trying to teach me
Kwak'wala. I'm desperately trying to learn.
One day Papa pointed to his bed and said, "If I'm on the bed and
you put a blanket on me, we call that mek-ee-da-ga."
I repeated, "Mek-ee-da-ga."
Papa continued. "If I catch a fish and let him go, same thing. We
call that mek-ee-da-ga."
I was confused, trying to understand the connections between
these two seemingly very different concepts. In my mind, catching a
fish and letting it go is very different from covering up a sleeping
person who may be cold.
Later, over at the Band Office, I tell Albert Wilson, an Elder in our
community, about the new word I've learned and of its two meanings.
He laughs and tells me it has another meaning. "If we honour
somebody in the Bighouse and we put a button blanket on him, we call
that mek-ee-da-ga.
And miraculously it all comes together for me: putting a blanket
on someone sleeping, catching a fish and letting it go, honouring
someone in the Bighouse are linked concepts; they all have to do with
respect, honour, care, nurturing, giving life.
A few days later I came across a picture of my mother with my
baby son. I had taken the picture some twenty years ago when my
eldest son was just seven months old. This was before our village's
Bighouse was built. It was a cold and windy afternoon and a ceremony
was taking place outdoors. My mother was holding my son, Ali,
keeping him warm underneath her button blanket. I snapped what I
saw as merely a cozy and colourful moment between my mother and
my son.
Now I wonder what that picture might say to a Kwak'wala
speaker such as my mother. My mother didn't learn English until she
went to school at the age of nine and I know that as an adult - even
after she had been speaking English for twenty years - she would
sometimes confuse English words. When I was a teenager I remember

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her telling me that she often mixed up the English words for "feathers"
and "fur." I thought this odd and told her so and she explained then
that "feathers" and "fur" are both coverings of non-human creatures.
As I was taking the photo, from my non-Kwak'wala speaker's
side of the camera lens, I saw a colourful picture: my mom and my
baby son. Twenty years later and three months after my mother's
death, I see a whole new picture: Mek-ee-da-ga. A grandson being
honoured, kept warm, given life. And I've come to understand why, in
order to understand a culture, we also need to understand the language.
Ha-La-Kasla.

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Drew Hayden Taylor

Drew Hayden Taylor

MY ELDER IS BETTER THAN YOUR ELDER
It seems that in the simple world of Eldership (i.e. the fine art of being

an Aboriginal Elder), there is apparently a hierarchy that I was not
aware existed. This became apparent to me recently when I was
involved in a conversation about this certain Elder that will remain
nameless for obvious reasons. This one individual openly scoffed at
this person being considered a wise and respected Elder, citing the fact
that he once was a raging alcoholic. "He was the worst drunk in the
village!" this person said with conviction.
Now it's no surprise to anyone how one's past experiences and
mistakes can follow you for the rest of your life ... Elders are no
different. Mistakes are buoys on the river of life - they can help you
either navigate the river or send you up shit creek without a paddle.
But I didn't realize those mistakes can also negate the positive
achievements a person could accomplish during the remaining days of
his/her existence. I was truly surprised to find out that only those who
have never drank in their lives, never lied, never abused tobacco, never
swore, walked counter-clockwise at a clockwise ceremony, and were
never human, could be considered the only real Elders. I learn
something new everyday.
I guess Priests and Nuns who hear their Calling late in life can't
really become true Priests and Nuns since more than likely, sometime
in their past they've taken the Lord's name in vain or had sex with a
Protestant, or sampled some Devil's Food Cake. Maybe all three at
once.
It's also no secret that the best drug and alcohol counsellors are
usually those people who have lived the darker side of life and know
of what they speak. Otherwise it would be like learning to water ski
from somebody who's afraid of the water. You can read all you want,
take as many workshops as you like, but unless you've wrestled with
those demons yourself, there's only so much hands on experience you
can bring to the job.
That's why I'm puzzled by this reaction to Elders who had a life
before they became Elders. Handsome Lake, a Seneca in the late
1700s, is considered by many Iroquois to be the second great
messenger, after the Peacemaker himself, sent to his people by the

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Creator to teach the wisdom of the Great Peace, part of the Iroquois
philosophy/beliefs. However, his visions came to him during a four
day coma induced by a rather severe bout of drinking. The point being,
Handsome Lake cleaned up his act and became a very well respected
orator and teacher.
Gandhi, a very different type of Indian, but I'm fairly certain he
can still be included in the classification of "wise Elder," was a lawyer
before he became the GANDHI we're all familiar with. Now that's a
hell of a bigger obstacle to overcome than alcoholism if you want to
be a holy man. Buddha was a spoiled prince before he saw the light,
walked his path of wisdom and developed his big belly.
Perhaps it was Nietzsche, who may or may not be considered an
Elder depending on your philosophical learnings, who said it best
when he wrote in a rather over used cliche "That which does not
destroy us, makes us stronger." Maybe Nietzsche was an Elder
because it certainly sounds like many an Eider's story I've heard. The
fortitude I find in many Elders can sometimes only be forged from
experience and pain.
I believe it was William Blake who coined the term, "The palace
of wisdom lies on the road of excess." Wisdom comes from experience. Experience comes from trial and error. And sometimes error
means waking up one morning in a place you don't know, smelling
like something you don't want to know, realizing you might not have
many more mornings left to wake up like this. You have to travel
before you know the countryside.
Several years ago I attended an Elders conference. There were a
bunch ofus in a large room waiting to be instilled with knowledge by
this visiting Elder, who's name I'm ashamed to say I have forgotten.
Several young people took out their pens and paper, ready to learn
diligently. But this method of learning was not to be. The Elder quietly
asked them to put their note pads away. "Writing something down is
asking permission to forget it" was what he said, and it made sense.
Not more than a few days ago, I came across a quote in a
newspaper. I think the quote was from Plato, that ancient Greek
philosopher dude from 2500 years ago. And it said "Writing is the
instrument of forgetfulness." Sound familiar? Two wise individuals
from primarily oral cultures. It seems great minds think alike.

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Rebeka Tabobondung

Drew Hayden Taylor

What is an Elder? How do you define one? I don't know. Some
say you can't be one until you are a grandfather. Others say it has to
be conferred upon you by the community, not merely by self-identifying. I've heard some say there's an inner glow that you recognize.
But perhaps the more important question is who has the authority
to say somebody isn't an Elder? Let ye who is without wisdom, cast
the first doubt.

Reconciliation
We are waking up to our history
from a forced slumber
We are breathing it into our lungs
so it will be part of us again
It will make us angry at first
because we will see how much you stole from us
and for how long you watched us suffer
we will see how you see us
and how when we copied your ways
it killed our own
We will cry and cry and cry
because we can never be the same again
But we will go home to cry
and we will see ourselves in this huge mess
and we will gently whisper the circle back
and it will be old and it will be new
Then we will breathe our history back to you
you will feel how alive and strong it is
and you will feel yourself become a part of it
And it will shock you at first
because it is too big to see all at once
and you won't want to believe it
you will see how you see us
all the disaster in your ways
how much we lost
And you will cry and cry and cry
because we can never be the same again
But we will cry with you
and we will see ourselves in this huge mess
and we will gently whisper the circle back
and it will be old and it will be new

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Barbara-Helen Hill

Barbara-Helen Hill

My Take on the Term 'Elder'
I think I'm sour on the term 'Elder'. Maybe it is because I have seen
so much abuse not only of the term but also by the 'Elders'. The term
'Elder' has been bantered around so much for the past few years and
I've found that some of the people who call themselves 'Elders' are
self serving ego-maniacs. Some of the people are abusers who have
gotten older and some are takers. These so-called 'Elders' take your
money, give you some of the words that have been passed around from
speaker to speaker and then later on show themselves in their true
colours. Now not all speakers are like this. Not all old people are like
this. Not all community leaders are like this. And most important of
all, not all of the people fall for these so called 'Elders.'
Here in Haudenosaunee country we have some people calling
themselves 'Elders'. They are older than I and in some cases, I guess,
they are more knowledgeable in some areas. I have a problem with the
use of the term 'Elder' because Haudenosaunee or Iroquois do not
have 'Elders'. We have clan mothers, faith keepers, chiefs, and grandmothers and grandfathers, aunties and uncles. The term 'Elder', only
came in during the last ten or fifteen years of the healing and recovery
movement. With this healing and recovery movement, we have many
people who have found jobs being 'Elders'.
Many years ago while working and living within the Ojibwa,
Cree, and other nations I visited with people who were very angry with
certain 'Elders'. They had been sexually and spiritually abused by
these men and wanted nothing to do with them or their traditional
ways. I don't believe this happens in all communities, but it does
happen. This is why I'm so opposed to the self-appointed 'Elders' or
community members that put others up on pedestals. We as traditional
people - Ojibwa, Cree, Sault, Blood, Blackfoot, Haudenosaunee - are
not meant to be put on pedestals or held higher than anyone else. We
are human and there is no one person better than another.
I'm not sure what the answer is or if there is even a question about
the term 'Elder'. I guess those who choose to call a person an 'Elder'
may be using the term with respect and as a term of endearment.
Maybe I'm just sour on the way the people choose to behave when
they are given the title 'Elder'. Maybe I just wish that the 'Elders' have
some self respect and respect for others so that they don't use and

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abuse others. The most painful story I've ever heard was of a young
woman who went to an 'Elder' in the province of Manitoba and put
her trust and faith in that man. He broke that trust and sexually abused
her in the Sweatlodge. That woman left her traditional ways and
refused to even acknowledge being Indian. I never heard what
happened to her, I'm not sure she was able to even survive because she
was so traumatized.
I myself experienced something of that sort by a man who was
revered as an 'Elder' in the western provinces. I was at a conference
here in Ontario and that man was sitting near me at a table. While he
engaged me in a conversation about something another speaker had
said he proceeded to place his hand on my leg. I hadn't even been
introduced to him yet he felt he had the right to be that familiar with
me. That is improper behavior. Now that may seem like a little thing
to you but it was not to me. In our ways, a man is not to touch even a
hair of your head unless you are married to him, never mind trying to
touch your leg. I walked out of the conference.
There are many more stories like this. There are those who have
been "guided" to do things that have ended up in tragic ways. Now
you may say that the 'Elder' only guided. Maybe that is true to some
extent. But when someone has been traumatized or abused in anyway
they are extremely vulnerable. I don't believe that an 'Elder' is any
better than a priest in a boarding school if they take advantage of the
vulnerable.
'Elders' need to have the love of self, self-respect, and respect of
others in the community before they step out there in that position.
They need to have come to terms with their abuse and their trauma in
their lives. When I say "come to terms" I do not mean they are to have
shelved it, buried it, or mentally dealt with it. I mean that they need to
heal the pain around it. Sometimes, the trauma or abuse doesn't come
to surface until they are older. Sometimes they carry shame and guilt
around an abuse that is not theirs to carry. While carrying that shame
they abuse others to "get even" or because they don't even know they
are doing it. Sometimes what is abusive to one is not felt as abuse to
others. It depends on the trauma suffered as a child. It is when they are
in a position of power over others and continue to abuse that it is reprehensible.

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Barbara-Helen Hill

Barbara-Helen Hill

Becoming an 'Elder' in the communities that have 'Elders', in the
sense of wise spiritual leaders, takes a lot more than just getting older.
It means having faced those painful memories and healed the
emotional pain around childhood sexual, physical, emotional abuse. It
means having gotten to the place of forgiveness. It means having
gotten to the place where you don't take on the troubles of the world
but you are willing to listen to those troubles. It means being able to
guide a person to a place of goodness out of a place of anger and
hatred. It means being able to guide a person through their pain in a
way that will not be harmful to them or anyone else. It means having
made peace with themselves and the Creator.
There is a difference between being an 'Elder' and being an older
person. It is up to the person seeking that 'Elder' to know the difference. When a person is abused as a young child they often don't have
the wisest judgment when it comes to picking an 'Elder' if they
haven't resolved those pains from the abuse. That poor judgment may
lead them to a man that others recommend from their experience but
then that 'Elder' may not have healed their pain from their own abuse
and will abuse.
There are some questions about what is abuse. You have people
who have been abused in boarding schools at the ages of five through
sixteen. They haven't had the time to grow in a healthy way with the
teachings from healthy parents. These people have then raised families
in unhealthy ways. They then have become older or elderly. Their
children have again raised children in unhealthy ways because they
haven't been taught any different. Remember you learn how to be a
parent by being parented and watching how your parents raised you
and your siblings. You also learn how to be married by watching the
actions within your household between your mother and father. If you
are raised by unhealthy parents or by priests, nuns and spinster
teachers and unmarried caretakers you don't exactly have good role
models. All of this is abuse to some.
The language, songs, movies, television programs, books and
advertisements are selling with sex or selling sex. Jokes are prevalent
that are sexual, and/or racist. Watching movies with sex and or
violence at a young age is abusive to children. Their little minds and
spirits don't have the capabilities to decipher right from wrong. It is
abusive for them to see sexual actions of any kinds at a young age.
Growing up in homes where these things are allowed, a child is being

abused. Sex is for adults. Adults that have grown up emotionally
mentally and spiritually to become their own person and ~ake
decisions based on their own belief systems to make healthy choices,
don't allow children to watch those kinds of movies or attend those
sexually explicit movies and concerts. While other adults who are not
making healthy choices for themselves or their children then become
older. Which older person are you going to go to for advice.
It is the responsibility of the 'Elder' to make sure that he or she is
clean and sober and healthy in all four bodies - mentally, physically,
emotionally and spiritually. It is the responsibility of the person
seeking the 'Elder' to trust their inner selves, their gut feelings and run
in the opposite direction if you get an uncomfortable feeling from the
'Elder'. If a young man is starting out on his healing path he needs to
seek men that he admires that are clean and sober and walk the talk. If
a young woman is starting out her journey then she needs to spend
time with healthy women. There are many things that other people 'Elders' - can tell you, but the answer ultimately comes from within
you.
If you were abused by an 'Elder', then my advice is the same as I
received from other traditional leaders; name names. We were intimidated as children when we were abused. We didn't know at that time
that we could tell someone safe. Know that now. You can find
someone safe and name names. 'Elders' in the sense of spiritual
leaders have a responsibility. Our responsibility is to see that no
'Elder' or elderly person is abused. But it is also our responsibility to
see that we are not abused either.

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Brent Peacock-Cohen

Brent Peacock-Cohen

Coyote the Scientist

The Creator saw this problem and taught the children of the Eagle
and Bear to fish.

Time began with a big bang? That is not what I was told.
Two cousins, an eagle and a bear sat on a stump. They talked for
a long time about who was who and what was what. From where they
were sitting they saw Snk'lip (Coyote) go down by the creek. They
decided to go down and investigate.
Snk'lip was watching a leaf float down the creek.
"What are you doing?" they asked.
"I am watching this leaf to predict the speed of the creek."
"Oooh." so they watched him. Soon he stopped watching the leaf
and he put a branch into the middle of the creek.
"What are you doing now?"
"I am looking at the degree to which the creek pulls the branch
and by the curvature of the branch will let me predict the force of the
creek."
"Oh." They watched Snk'lip play his games. After a time Snk'lip
let go of the branch and it floated away down the creek. Snk'lip walked
out to the middle of the creek and placed a rock beside another.
"What are you doing now?"
"I am looking at the velocity of the water going between the two
rocks."
"Oh." They continued to watch Snk'lip. By and by the Eagle and
Bear started to get hungry.
"Catch us a fish." They asked Snk'lip.
Snk'lip looked at them very sad and said, "I cannot, but I can use the
velocity, speed and force of the water to predict the hydraulic potential. By knowing the hydraulic potential, we can harness the power and
use it to do work for us."
"But we need fish to eat."
"Maybe one day my mathematical measurements will help
formulate an answer to our problems."
"But we need fish now."
"That, I can not help with."
The Eagle and the Bear starved.

Oh Creator
what foresight you had
to put the animals here first
to show us the way

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But your brother God
created an ambitious race
people who saw themselves above animals
they block our way
Oh Creator
do not forsake us
let Fox send us Snk'lip again
to replenish ourselves
To right our wrongs and restore the balance

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Richard Green

Grandpa's Mystique

Grandpa had class. He had a reputation for guiding you to the answer
but never butting in until you figured things out for yourself. Letting
things be, perhaps, became the greatest lesson I ever learned and it
came during age nine at a haying bee.
His daughters, sons, their offspring, my mother and I, plus a few
neighbours came together every summer to gather the hay for the barn
animals. I lived in the city, so for me the haying harvest meant a time
of joy; I knew there would be camaraderie, pie and cake. For the adults
it meant a time of sweat and renewed acquaintances.
As soon as the last helpers arrived, and the men went into the
field, us kids formed a group and went outdoors to decide who would
be 'it' for hide-and-seek. I didn't know all the kids' names but it didn't
matter since they were kids. Somebody named Jimmy leaned against
the house while he covered his eyes and began counting.
Everybody scattered. Some kids went into the cattails behind the
house in the dried-up swamp. One shinnied up the large oak tree on the
edge of the woods. When I started to follow him, he waved me away
and I rushed toward the barn. I ran inside, glanced around and squinted
through the cracks of the plank walls. If Jimmy came along, there were
plenty of nooks and crannies to hide me.
"Ninety-five, ninety-nine, a hundred, ready or not, here I come,"
Jimmy shouted as he darted away from the house to search for us.
I saw him coming straight for the barn and I bolted. I went out the
back and ran for the hay field using the barn as a shield. I saw a tree
in the field and ran toward it. Workers drew hay from mounds and
threw it on a horse driven wagon with their pitch forks. Two of them
watched as I scampered up the tree quick as a cat and crouched into a
wide crook in the branches.
From the barn, I heard Jimmy yelling, "I see you. I know you're
in here. I'm gonna git you!"
As I snuggled deeper into the crook, a branch suddenly snapped.
I fell to the field and looked at the barn to see if Jimmy was coming. I
crawled behind a hay mound and somebody dumped hay on me. "He
can't see you now," somebody else laughed.
As the wagon move on, I lay still as I could. I heard Jimmy's

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voice fading as he ran toward the cattails. Hay dust got up my nose and
made me sneeze. As I sat up to brush myself off, I saw a baby rabbit
00 the ground in front of me.
"Hello," I said, but the rabbit lay still with his little ears pressed
against his back.
I had never seen a baby cottontail before. I marveled at his big
eyes, his little puff of a tail and his stillness. I wondered why he didn't
run and decided that maybe he liked me. If he did, I'd take him home
and he could be my pet. "You're the cutest little thing I've ever seen."
I said, hoping to win his favor.
But the rabbit remained still as a stone. I decided to let him get
used to me and lay down with him face to face. I didn't even move
when Jimmy came running up, slapped me on the shoulder and ran off
toward the house. I carefully worked my hands beneath the fluffy, little
ball and held it against my belly.
When I got to the house, all the kids gathered 'round. Jimmy tried
to pet the little bunny, but I pulled away just in time. If anybody's
going to be the first to pet him, it should be me ... I found him.
One of the girls said, "Can I have him?" Another asked, "What's
his name?"
"Hippety," I announced quickly as an indication of ownership.
"Well, Delbert's 'it' this time, " said Jimmy. "Let's get going.
How're you gonna play carrying a rabbit?"
"I'm not," I said. "He needs something to eat." I walked up the
wobbly concrete-block steps and went into the kitchen. Big, boiling
kettles covered the top of the iron stove, so I took the bunny over to a
safe comer and set him down next to the wood box.
"Don't worry, Hippety." I sat next to him and leaned against the
wall. "When we get home, I'm going to build you a real nice cage,
probably one made out of chicken wire."
Grandpa turned a page of the newspaper. "You think he'll like
living in a cage?"
"Well, chickens do," I said quickly. "You got chickens living in
their coops."
"That's because they give us eggs. That rabbit going to give you
eggs?"
"No, guess not." He had me thinking. I really didn't know much
about rabbits. I knew when we visited Grandpa in early winter we ate
rabbits for supper, but I thought those were different rabbits. Suddenly,
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I felt even more protective toward Hippety. He needed saving at any
cost. "I... I'll take good care of him," I stammered.
"How do you know it's a he?" Grandpa put the paper on the table
and bent forward for a closer look. "What if it's a She?"
"How do you tell?" I looked hopefully at Grandpa. "Can you
tell?"
"Well if it's a she, through pain, she gives life to lots of little
rabbits. She makes a nest for them, feeds them, washes them, and one
day one of them turns up missing. So she looks high and low and waits
through the scary night when Tawiskaron rules and becomes broken
hearted when she can't find the favorite of all her little children."
I look at Hippety and hear Grandpa push his chair out. He goes
out the door and I guess he's going to the field to check haying
progress. One of my aunties comes in to check the kettle of potatoes.
"Got any lettuce?" I ask. "And how about some water?"
In a flash she hands me a big, green lettuce leaf and a saucer. "You
can get water from the pail," she says. "Don't be surprised if it doesn't
eat nothing."
I spill some water from the dipper into the saucer and return to
Hippety. I put the lettuce next to his nose and marvel at his cute little
front paws. He just sits there. He doesn't even wrinkle his little nose.
He's got to be hungry; he's got to eat or he'll die.
When the men come out of the field before dusk, everybody sits
outside and eats. There's com and potatoes and chicken and cake and
pies and everybody partakes in this happy, festive occasion.
Everybody but me.
Hippety hasn't moved all day. I don't know what's wrong with the
little creature. I wish as hard as I can but he still doesn't eat or drink.
Suddenly, my aunty's standing in the doorway, "Aren't you going
to eat anything? Food's getting cold."
"No, I guess I'm not very hungry."
I carefully put my hands under Hippety and lean him against my
belly. I push the kitchen door open with my shoulder and slip on a
loose concrete block. Hippety flips out and falls on his side in the tall
grass. Instead of running, he quickly moves back into his crouch
position and waits. I watch his little sides go in and out when he
breathes. He's the cutest, cuddliest thing I've ever seen - even cuter
than a kitten. I want to pick him up and feel his soft fur against my
face.
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Instead, I put my hands under him and raise him up against my
belly. The sun is setting and twilight doesn't last very long. Ifl put him
back where I found him maybe his Mum will still be searching for
him.
I find the tree and the flattened hay stubs an_d carefully r~tum him
to his exact place. I slowly get up and look at him one last time. He's
only moved once all day. I tum and run toward the house. With all that
food there must be something left for me.
I don't know if Hippety's mum came for him or not. Even if she
didn't at least he was back where he belonged. I do know that the next
morning only dew covered the ground where I put Hippety. And when
I came back from the field and looked toward the house, I saw a
curtain from Grandpa's bedroom window rustle back into place.

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lump was on my body. I timidly lifted the bottom of my shirt, afraid
of her reaction.
"Looks like you got chicken pox," she said, then walked away. I
thought she was crazy. You can't tell chicken pox by one tiny lump.
She got on the phone to my school to let them know I wouldn't be in
for a week or so. I tried to downgrade it to just a spider bite, but she
got out the baking soda and said "You're gonna need this later".
Then she walked out the door with a suitcase. What did she know,
she was going into surgery and was on pain pills.
Over the next twenty four hours, I became covered in 'lumps'.

Lumps and Bumps
(are one and the same)
Grandma K. always smelled like dog biscuits. I didn't really mind
because she had a great dog and her smell was a testament to the love
she felt for him.
One cold October night her dog escaped from the yard. Grandma
K. in her raincoat and cane stepped out into the street to look for her
four legged companion and was struck by a car. Grandma K. was
eventually okay, but she needed surgery. She was going to leave for
the coast on a bus, and my mom and I would look after the dog at
Grandma's house for a week.
I was in Grade Seven and an expert at everything. I knew it all and
I couldn't get any better. But, the night before Grandma K. left, I had
to stay with her and go to school in the morning. It would have been
okay ifl wasn't so damned scared of her.
She was four foot nine inches tall and had been a dart playing,
bowling champ, local hockey fan, foster parent, twice weekly church
going Weight Watchers since before I was born. She had strength,
more than I could ever comprehend.
Her husband died after a painful fight with lung cancer. They both
smoked three packs a day, but Grandma K. quit when people started
saying that it might be dangerous.
Whenever I had to stay with her, I always slept in Grandpa's old
room. That totally freaked me out. That was the room farthest from the
T.V. Grandma K. thought it was all too adult. Stuff like the news, Love
Boat and every crime show was off limits to me. I didn't even dare
peak around the comer for fear of Grandma's wrath.
Grandma K. sent me to bed at eight-thirty, an hour before my
regular bedtime. I was fine with that, I was having trouble relieving
myself of the taste of stewed tomatoes.
Grandma got me up in the morning to eat porridge. Yum. As I was
getting dressed, I noticed a small red mark on my chest beside my left
nipple. I saw an episode of All in the Family where Edith found a lump
on her breast. In Grade Seven, a lump and a bump are one and the
same. My thoughts raced to Grandpa's frail body. It was the room, the
cancer room.
I asked Grandma K. if she could help me figure out what this
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Dawna Elaine Page (Karonhiakwas)

Dawna Elaine Page (Karonhiakwas)

Juniper Berries
our people
tom from the earth
our love
tom from our hands
hey yeh ho yeh, hey yeh ho yeh
as great-grandmother's bones
disintegrate into the dark soil
so I went to the concrete city
brushed the dirt from my hands
and closed my eyes.
my people buried beneath soil
the soil buried beneath stone
so must I bury my heart
and my song
hey yeh ho yeh, hey yeh ho yeh.
you walk above your grave
unafraid of falling
the clouds beneath your moccasins
scatter into stars
into silence hey ho.
I hear your voice.
I see the moon's reflection in your wild eyes.
come to the forest
in the shadows
curve the twig
taste the leaf
this drop of rain will quench your thirst.
our people
alive within us
our passion
alive in our bones.
my hands are bleeding
and broken from the digging
but the dark earth
beneath my nails

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is enough
for One to walk on.
hey yeh ho yeh, hey yeh ho yeh
walk with me.
let the land rise with each stride
let our tears fill the river
let the smoke rise
the strawberry blossom
the song begin again
hey yeh ho yeh, hey yeh ho!

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Pocahontas Barbie
Tribute to my Warrior Woman Aunt/Elder
(work in progress)
Three years old, was Thirty-six years old,
she was loved by all who would take her home, buy her a drink, she
is your Barbie,
to undress, twist and throw,
a dispossessed spirit, a life survivor, coping through pain too great to
look at clearly,
her Grand Ole Opry was the only way she knew how to cope,
Coming down the gravel road, sounds of a muffler dragging over the
prairie hills,
It's Conway Twitty, Hank Snow, and Loretta Lynn,
With Ms. Pocahontas sitting in the back seat, bruised fingers tight
around Ole Jack
Daniel's neck,
They all understood her when nobody else could,
through wafting haze of blue ocean tides of smoke,
"Hey, Jimmy Reeves, pour another round for Hank,
heck, another round for all my friends."
"Waylon. Dance with me cowboy, I'll be your Indian Pocahontas
Princess." "Loretta, my
coal miners daughter, sing me a song."
"I can't do that Ms. Pocahontas, it's time to go."
"Just one more dance please,
Please."
"No, I am not ready."
"Shhh ... sweetie, I brought your buckskin shawl."
"Last call!"
Moist cold earth, broken teeth,
taste of rusty nails in her mouth,
frozen black hair covers her pale limbs.
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Making Waves

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The wind knocks me backwards as I bop up and down in the waves,
all of a sudden I'm bouncing amongst the kelp patch and it slips over
my body.
It feels gentle and sensuous, can't believe I ended up here. I was
just trying to hide from my Ada and the chores. I knew I shouldn't
have jumped into the canoe. She didn't even see me either. I just heard
her calling my name. I don't know why I was trying to get away from
packing water. I knew very well it was my tum today to pack Ada's
water. I didn't want to leave my Indian baseball game. I was having
too much fun.
Now I bop amongst the kelp because I out tricked myself again.
When will I ever learn?
Hey, what's going on, all of a sudden my legs are caught up and I
can't move. I wonder if I should yell for help. I'll try to get myself
loose by kicking around, oh no. I'm stuck now and even my hands are
caught. One big yell for all I'm worth, hopefully someone will hear
me. I keep swallowing the water when I'm trying to yell.
Oh, thank God, here's a log: I've got one hand free. I'll hang on
while I'm untangling myself. Oh, the water all of a sudden, it feels safe
and warm. I have to keep thinking about why I'm here. I know now, I
have to listen when I'm told that I have to help out my Ada.
The leafy part of the kelp slowly unravels itself from my legs. I
think about Ada who never complains when she's making us
something to eat. Oh thank God, the thin, stringy end of the kelp was
much easier to untangle cause I could just tear it with my free hand.
Brings me back to Ada, she's been so tired lately and I could have
made her day easier if I just packed her water like I was supposed to.
You know Ada always makes me feel so close in spite of my
naughtiness. She's willing to remain playful and accepting so much,
like our water, it can make us feel so safe and warm, if we don't
approach it with haste and hurry.
Her hands so worn with age still remain soft and gentle and she
touches my shoulder and looks into my eyes.

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Ada sent out Dada to come out and get me on his skiff, she was
the one who heard my cry for help. When I arrived she got me
something to drink and she asked Dada to sing the baby song for me.
I will always remember the song, for when I'm blessed with grandchildren. I will sing Dada's song for them.

The Last Flood
In a land
With tricky water
Reserves
Sand bags at the ready
Waiting to sop up
Emotional messes
Of legacies
Left by Churches
Threat of floods
Permeate the air
Spins prickly electricity
Over unsuspecting vegetation
While winter snows melt in Spring
Making heavy water falls
Speed and tear
Away protective rock layers
Revealing soft brown clay
Of the original people
Pre-contact people
Pre-broken-hearted people
Before removal
Before numerous losses
Too many to mention
Dams burst open
And confuse the fish
Comfortable with steadier pace
All Hell breaks loose
With memory floods
Uncontrollable currents
Rising levels, spill onto
Unfamiliar territory
Out of it's element
Painful and pleasurable

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Chaos
Families can only wait
For levels to subside
Leaving once hard lands
Weepy, wanting
For heat
Evaporation
New crusts will form
New life will be born
Many generations away
From floods

Section 2
Gifts

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Roxanne Lindley

The Gift
This story, like most of our Okanagan stories began many years ago.
Coyote, known for his big ego was sitting on a hill having some
deep thoughts. As he looked down upon the village, he saw People
who had the most undesirable qualities. Look at Kilawna (grizzly
bear), he was very fierce and had a reputation for being very powerful;
but very few could tolerate his strong musky smell. Sasquatch was
someone who People honoured before harvesting and someone who
could travel between the realms; however, he just couldn't get the
hang of being gentle. The Rainbow Trout, a truly beautiful fish could
swim sideways, forwards and backwards; however, if something like
an old tree fell across the creek it often would stop the Trout from
traveling.
Coyote felt pretty dam smart for being able to see these things
about others in his village; too bad mirrors weren't around! Coyote
was all puffed up, and really liking himself when two Chipmunks ran
by.
They were so happy and excited about the stash of nuts they
found, that they didn't even pay attention to Coyote. Damn them,
Coyote thought, they really are worse than a couple of Magpies! As he
listened to them chattering, his only thought was about how much
energy they wasted. Coyote believed no one else really cared and
farted in their direction, just to show them what he thought of them.
Meadowlark sat on top of the pine tree and watched as the poor little
Chipmunks ran away coughing and gagging. Coyote, by then, was
rolling on the ground holding his sides laughing until there were tears
in his eyes.
Meadowlark felt bad, and thought if she sang her song the
Chipmunks would feel a little better. Coyote loved to hear a good
song, and almost liked Meadowlark for a minute. But, he knows
Meadowlarks only stick around for early spring and they're off like
farts in the wind. They should stick around all year, Coyote thought as
he looked up in the clouds; imagine how their songs would sound on
a crisp wintry day.
Coyote, must have dozed off or maybe he even had a vision.
Hummingbird came to him, and as she flittered about she told Coyote

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many important things. She told Coyote that he had pine gum in his
eyes, for he chose to only see certain things. She told him that soon he
would receive another teaching. She told Coyote that he had to learn
to see with his ears and listen with his eyes and then she flew away.
Hummingbird was with Coyote in his vision, and now she was
here with him in the village; she knew that she had things to do.
Hummingbird knew it was time to sit with the Stick People, for
they were the backbone of the Okanagan. The Stick People were pretty
important, and you just couldn't show up. Hummingbird knew she had
to approach their Spirits first, to do that she would need to have a
ceremony. She had to search for just the right plant; the one that would
give her the sweet potent nectar. Hummingbird knew that she would
have to gather for ten days to get the right amount for the ceremony.
Finally everything was ready.
As Hummingbird went into the Sweatlodge, she knew that she
held a huge responsibility on her tiny little shoulders. She knew that
the Spirits would be with her as she sipped the sweet juice from her
birch basket. Many Spirits entered the lodge during the purification
ceremony, and Hummingbird knew immediately when Eagle Spirit
came into the Sweatlodge.
Eagle Spirit always created a strong presence, and he told
Hummingbird that she had to get Kilawna, Sasquatch, the Rainbow
Trout, Chipmunk, Meadowlark, the Stick People and herself together
for a special Sweat before the next new moon.
He told her of the importance of telling everyone that they were
coming to share themselves; and together, under Eagle Spirit's
guidance they were going to create a gift for the People.
The People would remember this gift for many years. It was very
important that all those invited bring only themselves and no part of
anyone else. Eagle reminded Hummingbird of the ones who had to be
there, and how they had to fast for three days. That way everyone was
clean, inside and on the outside as well; you didn't want to be burping
or farting while the Spirits were speaking.
Hummingbird and the Spirits celebrated the night away in the
Sweatlodge; she was so excited about the vision and of what was to
come. Many beautiful songs were sung, and before she knew it
another new day was beginning. As she opened the flap to the
Sweatlodge, she saw the faint light in the eastern sky and felt such
happiness that she thought her little heart was going to burst.
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Her voice was raspy and her little wings were sore from
drumming all night, so Hummingbird knew that she must rest. She
immediately went to the tall poplar tree where her nest was, and fell
asleep to the gentle rustling of the leaves.
She awoke that evening to the sounds of the drums, and realized
that the People were gathered around a fire. Badger had come into the
village, and had announced that he had a new wife. Badger was proud
as punch as he introduced Loon, everyone admired her beautiful
iridescent black necklace. Many people believed that Loons held
special medicine, and many believed that it took a strong person to
deal with Loon magic.
As everyone watched the two, many wondered if Badger would
have the endurance to handle Loon; it wasn't long before Magpie got
a betting pool going.
As she watched, Hummingbird smiled and knew this was the
perfect time to talk of the beautiful things she had witnessed, and share
the words of Eagle Spirit.
Hummingbird flew down to the fire, and performed a special
dance in the air for the new couple. Many loved to watch her dance,
she looked like a jewel as light from the fire reflected off her colorful
feathers. Hummingbird had captured everyone's attention and so, she
began to speak of what was to come.
Coyote sat there on the fir boughs, and yawned from boredom.
Man, he thought, these two are crazy. Whoever heard of a four legged
and a water bird together, he knew that it would never last. Coyote
figured that they would last a few months at the most, and would let
Magpie know of his bet.
Groundhog sat beside Coyote, and elbowed him; Groundhog had
a very gentle soul and didn't like to have negative thoughts in his aura.
Groundhog told him that he should listen to what Hummingbird was
saying, and that he should be excited about the gift.
Coyote was on a roll, and as he looked down he was quick to
remind the chubby little critter of how Groundhogs made the best
sounding drum. Well, Groundhog let out one of his little squeals and
quickly waddled away from where Coyote was sitting.
Hummingbird continued to speak, even though Coyote was being
very rude; for she knew that she played a huge role in the new gift that
was to be received. She knew that this was going to be a time for many
tests; she knew this because everyone around the fire was being a
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bonehead. She knew that they often chased illusions, but she believed
in her heart that the Creator would look after things.
For many days and nights Hummingbird was diligent in
reminding the others of the preparation that had to be done. Everything
from the purification ceremonies, the fasts, the special hunt, the offerings and the entire celebration afterwards needed to be planned.
The energy and excitement soon began to spread throughout the
village; some today would say it spread like an Epidemic. Only this
time it was something good.
The time had finally arrived. Soon things were going to change,
no one knew in what way; they just knew something special was going
to happen. The Sweatlodge had been built that morning, and everyone
could smell the sweet combined aromas of red willow, fir, cedar and
sage.
Kilawna, Sasquatch, the Rainbow Trout, Chipmunk, Meadowlark
and the Stick People were finishing the last of their chokecherry
medicine. They had come to accept the responsibility that they, along
with Hummingbird would enter the Sweatlodge. Everyone knew that
they were to wait until the ceremony was over and the flap opened.
Sometimes people don't listen, sometimes people have lots of
things on their minds, and sometimes they just can't help it. Badger
was all of that and more; before he and Loon arrived she had done her
beautiful dance upon the water. Badger's heart was still aflutter; for it
was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Badger wanted to
always remember that day, so he plucked a small feather from Loon's
necklace and placed it inside his medicine pouch. Just thinking of her
feather in his pouch, so close to his heart, gave Badger lots of nice
warm fuzzy thoughts. He wished that he could spin on top of the
water, and he wished that he could have a clear distinct voice; if he
could do these things he would do them for Loon.
Badger was definitely in la-la land, and he didn't even realize it as
he waddled into the special Sweatlodge. All he could think of was that
dance and all he could do is smile as he entered the cool dark area.
Some say Badger thought it was his den; others say his head was in the
clouds, but most knew Loon medicine when they seen it.
Kilawna, the Rainbow Trout, Chipmunk, Meadowlark,
Hummingbird and the Stick People crawled into the Sweatlodge;
Sasquatch went in last, it was his job to sit by the door. No one noticed
Badger's furry warm little body, and Sasquatch closed the flap.
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Roxanne Lindley

Everyone knew that the flap would not open between rounds and
they knew they were in for a long stretch.
There were many songs, and everyone felt Eagle Spirit when he
entered the Sweatlodge. Eagle Spirit instructed everyone present to
join hands. Badger finally realized what was happening, and he knew
that if he said anything he would be in big trouble. He knew that he
would be really embarrassed if the ceremony stopped because of him.
So he did the only thing that he could do, and he joined hands with
Chipmunk and Kilawna. Hummingbird was instructed to fly above
everyone's heads while Eagle Spirit sang his song; she was to fly the
whole time he sang. As everyone held hands, Hummingbird flew
above their heads; all she could see were beautiful bright lights. It
wasn't long before the lights became beautiful rainbow coloured
streaks; Eagle was bringing everyone's energies together. Badger was
truly amazed by what was happening, all he could feel was an incredible feeling from the tips of his ears to his sharp claws on his little feet.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he remembered Loon and the
feather he carried around his neck. Instinctively, he knew that Loon
was part of this beautiful experience and he knew that they had
become part of one another. This connection would last forever and
ever and ever; as long as the grass continued to grow.
Finally the flap was opened, and everyone outside waited in anticipation to see what special gift was coming to the People. Kilawna, the
Rainbow Trout, Chipmunk, Meadowlark, Hummingbird, the Stick
People and Sasquatch crawled out of the Sweatlodge. When Badger
waddled out, everyone gasped. Many were shocked, and Badger
thought they were surprised to see him. Many had puzzled looks on
their faces.
Badger heard a noise behind him, and as he looked over his
shoulder he wondered what the heck came out behind him. This thing
behind him was unlike anything he had ever seen. He realized that the
People weren't looking at him, but at this thing that walked behind
him. This thing walked on two feet, like Kilawna but had hair only on
its head. Everyone could feel its powerful aura. What the heck was it?
Hummingbird realized it was time to explain what the special gift was.
Everyone was in awe, so it was easy to get everyone's attention.
Hummingbird began telling the People that the Eagle Spirit
brought a gift from the Creator, and this gift would be here to remind
us of the importance of being human towards one another.

This gift would be a fierce protector like Kilawna, and yet would be
able to carry the beautiful songs of Meadowlark and Loon.
This gift would have silvery hair like Sasquatch, this was to
remind the People to honour and respect the gift; for this meant knowledge and wisdom.
This gift would be able to communicate with the Water Spirits,
rnuch like the Rainbow Trout; this was very important as water is
necessary for survival.
This gift would always carry the burden of the past, the present
and the future; just like the Stick People. The roots would be deep
within Mother Earth, and this gift would always remind the People of
their responsibility in protecting all sacred beings on Mother Earth.
This gift would have the capability of Hummingbird; and would
be able to travel to many different realms and would share many
wonderful things with the People.
This gift would have the diligence of Badger, as well as carry the
deep love that Badger felt for his true love; nothing can ever stand in
the way of love.
Everyone was in seventh heaven over the idea of having such as
beautiful gift bestowed upon the People. There was only one question,
what was this gift to be called, what will it be known as.
Sasquatch stepped forwards and told the People that the Creator
said the gift was to be known as Elder. This Elder would bring
medicine and beautiful things to the People, just like the Elderberry
bush does. This Elder would branch out in many directions, just like
the Elderberry does and its branches would be strong enough to hold
many things. This Elder would bring beautiful music through its
branches, flutes would be made and the finest sounds would be
created. This Elder would always gather, and teach the importance of
gathering. And finally, this Elder carried the knowledge of the People
and all of Coyote's qualities.
Remember that when you are in an Elder's presence.

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Believe

Robert Vincent Harris

Awakenings

I

When you wake up
Take your first real breath
Open your eyes and see a new day
For you are not alone
Even if there is nobody around
You are not alone
Here those voices in your head
But don't always listen to what they say
They are only there to guide you
To offer assistance
And maybe some advice
If it's good advice is completely up to you
Hear what they say
But don't always listen
Are they real?
Are you real?
What is real?
Real is what you believe
No matter what that is
Do others form what's real?
Only if they believe
To believe in something is comfort
To believe in something is true
To believe in tomorrow is hoping
To believe in what's real
Is you!

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Rose Hips scatter about,
blessing,
Flattened dried seed pods,
dangling,
Flung to the wind as little people play,
Crickets sing the dance and sway
to the sun,
Copulating to the dance
Of the sleeping,
bushes,
Pulsing in the wind,
Contractions,
days apart,
As the midwives sit high in the trees,
The drops,
of cleansing tears.

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Okanagan Translations:
Nstils
Think
Stm'us
Fish trap
Mipnumt
Forecaster of future
Snk'lip
Coyote

The Reason Why We Do and The Reason Why We Don't
Indian people... we remember. Our stories are our collective
memories. The stories explain why we are and why we don't. Long
before they came, with their western culture and technology.
Long before they came, with their western culture and technology,
when the land was ours, we lived in a spiritual partnership with land
and animals. For the animals are our brothers and sisters, they showed
us the way. Animals have been here longer than we have. We respect
their wisdom of the land and the resources it provides. We learned the
circle of life from them. For every birth, there is death. For every
death, there is birth. Something the western technology, science,
economics and spirituality does not respect.
This is a story about why we don't.
Our ancestors tell us of a man. His name was Nstils. He was an
innovative thinker. The people were unsure of him but he did seem to
improve some things so they listened to him. Nstils could speak to the
animal world. My ancestors say he could talk to the wind, the trees and
the mountains. People saw him talking to a brook. The brook told him
where to fish. When my people went to fish at that spot, my people ate.
However, Nstils never helped the people give back to the fish. Nstils
just moved forward.
Nstils was always experimenting with things. Nstils was always
trying to build a better Stm 'us. An old Elder named Mipnumt warned
the people that Nstils might go too far. He is too ambitious and he does
not think of the consequences of his actions, he said but people did not
listen.
One day Nstils showed the men in the village a new way to fish.
Traditionally my people would fish with dip nets and spears. Nstils
showed the men, how to dam the creek with logs and rocks. He told
the men a beaver told him how to do it. They built the dam higher than

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the water. The dam was different from the dam of the beaver. The one
that the men built had a channel in the middle to let the water through.
The salmon came. The salmon had to go through the channel to
get to the end of their journey. Nstils showed the men how to build
bigger dip nets. The bigger dip nets allowed the men to catch more
fish. The men of the village fished. They fished and they fished. The
men fished all day and all night.
Our ancestors tell stories of the size of the pile of fish by the
creek. The hill was so high. The men fished and the women prepared
the fish to preserve. The women could not keep up. The fish came too
fast. The women fell behind. The men kept fishing because they had
not seen that the women fell behind.
The next day when the sun came up, the hot summer heat started
to dry the fish. The fish were not prepared so they spoiled. The men
still did not see the women could not keep up. The men kept fishing.
There was never a time before when the women could not keep up.
The men, when they fished with the smaller dip nets or spears; they
could only catch as fast as the women could work. Nevertheless, the
fish came too fast. The women could not keep up.
Mipnumt, tired from fishing all night sat on a rock by the creek.
He saw the women were not keeping up. He saw the fish drying out
on the banks of the creek. He jumped up and yelled, "Stop fishing!
Stop fishing!"
The men had already stopped fishing. They had stopped fishing
because there was no more salmon. There was not a salmon in the
creek. The men searched the creek. They found no salmon. The
salmon were gone. The salmon were gone forever.
The men saw the hill of dried out salmon. The men rushed to help
the women. The men were too late. The salmon just dried out and
rotted by the creek. The men and women just sat down and looked at
the hill of dried and rotten salmon.
Snk'lip came out of the woods. Snk'lip sat by the creek. Snk'lip he
looked at the hill of dried and rotten salmon. Snk'lip laughed, he
laughed at my people. That is not the way it is supposed to be. But
Snk'lip laughed and laughed. When Snk'lip was done laughing he
turned that hill of dried and rotten salmon into a rock. A rock, that is
still in the narrows of the creek. The rock will be there, forever. The
rock reminds my people of the time they forgot about the respect for
the salmon.
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Gordon de Frane

Sometimes in the summer, my people can hear Snk'lip laughing at
them from the hills. His laughter reminds my people, why there are no
salmon in the creek.
That Nstils invented many things but my people thought about his
inventions in the Sweatlodge before we accepted them. We didn't need
his motorized wheels, his experimental potions or his TV. We do
things the ways we do things so things are there to do. Not because we
can do them better for a short time.

48

Indian Summer
Each year my family watches the Moon's journey through the
heavens, arriving at mid point on the celestial equator marks the
official beginning of summer. For my family and especially for Ten'
(mum) and me, the beginning of summer means it's berry-picking
season. The white plastic ice cream pails would always be assembled
and washed and carefully dried and ready to receive their bounty of
berries. In the old days, baskets made from spruce and cedar roots and
cedar bark would have been common. I recall that berries are also
called stoomb - sometimes it means the meal that finishes a meal.
Since my earliest memories our family would be gathered and
make ready for picking berries each summer. The prized berries were
the big tame ones, the Himalayan Blackberries; they make the best
tasting jam with the memory of summer locked away in jars for later
pleasure, reliving the warm sun filled days during the cold winter
moons. Pure cakes of dried berries were served to highborn during
feasts and important celebrations. The common or lowborn people in
our communities made do with mixed cakes of dried berries. We
picked wild blackberries, strawberries and salmonberries. As children,
we picked thimble and salmonberry shoots too. Once peeled we would
dip the shoots in sugar and eat them fresh; Ten' would peel and steam
them as the first wild vegetable of the season.
Other berries picked included soap berries, which until recently,
we got only rarely from Elders or friends who shared some of their
precious cache of these mouth puckering, yet delicious berries. Of all
the berries, they are probably the most sought after. When whipped,
sweetened with sugar and mixed with a little cold water, you get the
most impossible looking Indian confection I know of, like eating
whipped salmon coloured clouds. I remember the first time I ate some;
they are funny tasting, almost soapy, I guess that's why they were
called soap berries, sour-tasting mouth pursing experience.
I fondly recall my first time eating soap berries; it happened when
we were staying over with Elders on Penelakut-Kuper Island. They
were Auntie Rose and Uncle Roger Peters; back then, they were
already Elders, it seemed to me when I was young; back then they
seemed ancient. Now auntie, who survives her husband Roger, seems

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even more ancient and even wiser than those many years ago.
Well, Everett, my brother, and me were staying over the weekend
with Auntie Rose and Uncle Roger and our cousin, their granddaughter Sheila. It must have been June or early July; I remember
waking on that Saturday morning to the smell of coffee brewing and
eggs and bacon frying. Auntie Rose greeted us and roused us from the
dreams that children dream. The house was slightly damp and the air
smelled of wood smoke as well as the ocean, which was only a few
steps away down the hill. The old the :wtxw (Longhouse) was then just
down the hill.
Uncle Roger was waiting for us at the table while Everett and I
washed and got dressed. They had an outhouse back then and so
washing was done in the kitchen. When we'd finished we joined him
at the table. Sheila was making toast. Auntie Rose went about serving
breakfast, pouring coffee for uncle and juice for us.
The house had that warm, smoky, pine smell to it that you get
from burning fir and hemlock wood for heat. The house was a typical
standard Government Issue: level floor, thin walls without benefit of
insulation, square, box situated on a plot of land. The front room was
filled with furniture of all sorts. It was furnished with two old chesterfields that bravely stood the test of time with two armchairs, in need
of new filling and coverings, and the ubiquitous day bed you find in
many Indian households.
There were three tables, one in the kitchen area, another one with
a lean to it next to the wood stove, and a smaller one with candles and
bells in the comer. In the center of this table stood a statue of the
Virgin; she was smiling down at a collection of burnt matches, saucers
with half burnt white candles melted to their centers and various little
notions around. On the wall above the stove hung a crooked crucifix
and the windows were draped with blankets and sheets knotted in that
typical shabby chic of Indian interior design. The dusty, bare, wood
floor was salted about with various bits and pieces of human detritus.
A basket in the corner spilled over with wool and knitting needles and
partly finished knitted pieces of what would become an Indian knit
sweater. Auntie Rose was a dedicated knitter, her sweaters were much
sought after by buyers and traders everywhere.
We took our places at the table and waited while Uncle Roger said
grace. He always said grace in Indian. Prayers, Indian prayers always,
sound so much more real in our language than in the language of
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xunitum - the hungry people. Inside of the house it seemed as though

the spirit worlds intersected with this world and that of the other newer
beliefs brought here last century. There was little telling the two apart.
Auntie and Uncle also believed in the old ways just as much as
the new prayers that they said. Prayer and belief was important. And
like so many of our people an ease of movement between the traditions and beliefs was normal and customary, even expected. I
remember reading once in a sociology text that the People of the Land
easily took up the beliefs of the new people. The theory suggested that
being spiritually oriented people, we found it easy to embrace other
beliefs while maintaining our own community identities, traditions,
customs and teachings. I like to think of this as being testament to our
ability to adapt and survive no matter what the Hungry People do to
us.
Auntie and Uncle were both members of the winter moons
dancing traditions of the :wtxw. They often wore regalia that my Ten'
had made for both of them. I remember the care and attention Ten'
took when she made dance regalia for Rose and Roger. Ten' cut the
designs from real black velvet and covered it in embroidered roses,
sequins and tassels and ribbons. Roger's shirt was adorned with
paddles and buttons. They were beautiful and I got to see Auntie Rose
wear hers once as she danced her way around the fires one winter night
long ago in the Longhouse.
That night that Auntie wore the regalia made by Ten', sent a
message to many of those assembled. Afterward, Ten' could hardly
keep up with the orders for other shirts and other types of regalia.
Dancers from everywhere came to our house looking to see if Ten'
could make a dance shirt for them. Today, I sometimes wonder what
happened to those several shirts, aprons and so forth that had been
commissioned and made. Do they still make their way round the fires
during the winter season, or have they been consigned to the memorial
fires when their wearers became ancestors?
Thinking back to those times spent on Penelakut, I remember
Auntie Rose being a good cook; the food was simple but always
delicious. The seasonings were salt and pepper only; any other seasonings would have been considered unnecessary, even un-Indian.
Mostly the food back then was wild. Wild food had not become
chic, but was a staple on the table and in the cupboard and in the
smokehouse. There was always plenty of smoked fish and deer meat
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to take the place of beef, pork and chicken. It was in the early eighties
that beef, pork and chicken took the place of smoked fish and deer
meat on our own tables at home. Now we eat like they do: in fine
restaurants when the occasional deer steak appears on the table or a
"wild" salmon survives the gauntlet of pollution and contamination
and zealous fishers.
On that early summer morning, Auntie served out eggs and bacon,
while Sheila brought hot buttered toast to the table. The word butter is
synonymous with margarine. In my early years eating "buttered"
bread of any sort wasn't done, to us, it was considered gross and cruel
and unusual punishment to eat slabs of congealed fat spread on bread
or toast. Later I would relish the memories of coming home after
school to a kitchen warmed by the smell of fresh bread, berries being
jammed and fry bread stacked and dripping with "butter" waiting for
us to pounce on as a prelude to supper. We would eat it with gobs of
jam skimmings that Ten' would leave for us just for that reason.
Of course, while eating "butter" was a taboo, not eating "grease"
with our fish and in our soup was unthinkable. I still enjoy good grease
drizzled over my fish and rice or flavouring the soup served with
frybread.
Back then Ten' was always jamming and canning or preserving
and pickling something. It seemed we shopped for the few things we
couldn't make back then. The jars of jams, jellies, pickles, preserves
and fish as well as the slabs of smoked salmon, dried and smoked
clams, the wrapped and frozen venison made up the bulk of our stores.
The garden we planted provided us with fresh fruits and vegetables.
The cattail flour and the bear fat soap which we got from back east
once a year carried our family through the seasons of the moons.
Everett and me ate our fill of breakfast and then helped Uncle split
and chop fire wood. Auntie came out a little while later and planted the
eyes of potatoes she had saved. I remember the joy it gave her to try
this little experiment. She planted them despite Uncle's misgivings
and belief that they wouldn't take. Still later she disappeared for a
couple of hours while Everett and Sheila and me carried on with our
chores under Uncle Roger's watchful eye.
About noon Auntie reappeared carrying a small pail and a cedar
stick she had cleverly carved into a paddle. She went inside and an
hour later called us in to eat lunch. Lunch was fry bread, fish egg soup,
one of my favourites next to black duck soup, and a bottom-up cake.
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Indian kitchens always seemed to produce bottom-up cake.
Bottom-up cake was made like most other cakes except that just
before it went into the oven hot sugared water was poured over it and
then baked. The batter would rise while the liquid would somehow
magically tum into a sauce on which the cake floated; I loved it. I
haven't had bottom-up cake in years. I still remember Auntie Rose's
being one of the best I'd ever eaten, especially when she would add
raisins or currants to the batter.
When she was just about ready to serve the cake, she set about
getting ready to make something else. She had retrieved the small pail
and carved red cedar paddle from the kitchen. She was now carefully
emptying the pail's contents into a squeaky-clean Pyrex glass bowl.
The bowl has to be squeaky clean or it won't foam. Her movements
were precise and seemed to embody the gathered wisdom of many life
times.
She then went and sat down on one of the old chesterfields and
slowly and then vigorously began whipping the contents of the bowl.
In Indian she asked Sheila to bring some water and more sugar. Sheila
stood beside her and when she was told would add either water or
sugar accordingly. It was like watching an alchemist at work, her
assistant making gestures and additions as Rose spoke her directions;
they made sure the potion being created would be just right.
It was magic of a kind because after a few minutes the contents of
the bowl started peaking from the edges as more volume was whipped
in to it. To me, it was like salmon coloured cotton candy as its mass
grew and grew beyond the rim of the bowl. Some more whipping and
a couple of more additions from Sheila and then the wooden spatula
rested.
Auntie Rose looked up at Everett and me and smiled while
holding out the cedar paddle for us to taste. I tasted it first and fell in
love with it from that moment onward. Everett followed next and then
Uncle Roger took an even greater portion. His face beamed like a child
eating chocolate or toffee and he sat in the comer looking as if he was
eating one of the rarest and finest delicacies to be had on earth; it was,
of course. That was how we first ate Indian ice cream and I'm transported back to that day even now whenever I eat it.
On a later visit, that summer, to Auntie and Uncle's home I made
a discovery. In the garden planted beside the house and between the
outhouse: masses of potato plants had flourished. Where only the eyes
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had been planted, with such faith and hope, great, green potato plants
grew. An even later fall visit meant freshly dug potatoes accompanied
our venison stew.
In our family, blackberries made up the bulk of the berries we
picked. We usually picked about a hundred pounds or more of them
during a season. Everett and me had a system for picking berries. We
made it into a game, which would get progressively different as we
went along. We'd pick one for the pot and two for the belly. Then we'd
pick two for the pot and three in our bellies and so forth. At the end of
the day our lips would be dyed black-purple and our fingers would
look like they had been dipped in purple henna. We would pick blackberries throughout the season. Ten' would always pray for sun rather
than rain during berry picking time.
Raspberries and other cultivated berries we usually bought from
farms in Cedar or Yellow Point. Wild blackberries and wild strawberries were usually made into pies and frozen for later use in the year.
Along with berries we'd pick plums and greengages and apples,
crabapples too.
I remember Khap-ah-lot's (Great Uncle Frank James) place had
fruit trees growing all over his land and he always invited us to come
and pick whenever and whatever was ready. He lived on the flats just
south of Duncan. He had greengages, prune plums, golden plums and
gravensteins growing on his land. He also had the best crabapples
growing anywhere, which we blended with rose hips and made into a
clear rose hued jelly.
Besides just having us pick, I think he really liked having the
company. Great Uncle Frank would always invite us to join them for
a meal when we had finished picking for the day. When picking was
done and everything packed and ready to go, they'd usher us in for tea
and bannock or dinner depending on the time of the day. Auntie made
the best soup and fry bread as I recall. I used to love picking out the
fish eyes and grossing out who ever my companions were by eating
them with exaggerated delight, in front of them. We always had a
xunitum friend or two along with us on such occasions. They were
pretty easy to gross out. Nowadays, I'm lucky if I see a fish eye
looking back at me in an aquarium.
Well, with our buckets and pails and canners full of fruit we
would head home. There the next part of our ritual would begin. Ten'
would set about washing and scouring bottles, gathering lids and rings,
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amounts of sugar and taking stalk of the Certo supplies.
I measuring
Ten'' s craft of blending the perfect quantities of fruit with pectin,

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sugar, and juice was just like working magic. The results were more
than magical when you consider that opening a jar of jam during the
dead of winter was like opening a bottle of summer sunshine.
The berries or whatever fruit had been picked would be carefully
washed and culled for any bits and pieces that weren't good and then
measured carefully and placed into the jam kettle. Ten' always used
old and ancient recipes that had been handed down to her from Auntie
Agnes or other Elders who shared favoured recipes with her. Those
recipes always seemed to produce the best jams, jellies, pickles and
preserves. They were real then; they always produced an honest
flavour and made for delicious spreads and such.
Ten' would fire up the gas stove and the first batch of blackberry
jam would be under way. In no time the whole house would smell
sweetly of blackberries, sugar and lemon. Auntie Agnes always said
the lemon zest made a good jam into a perfect jam. The counters
would be lined up with hot clean jars ready and waiting to receive their
black gold liquid. Back then Ten' used hot paraffin to seal the hot jam
into the jars. And the jars were not uniform but a collection of various
jars saved during the previous year's use of store bought relishes and
sandwich spreads, scrubbed and sterilized ready to use again. Looking
back at our practices it seems we were less paranoid about food-born
illnesses, either that or our methods were just very good. Today, I'm
afraid, paraffin and odd bottles and jars have given way to uniform
pint jars and a ten minute water bath processing to seal the jams in.
During berry season, which seemed to never really end, the
bottles of jam and preserves would gradually grow in number and
variety as one berry came into its prime while another faded. Our
cupboards soon filled with rows of jars glistening with black-purple,
bright raspberry red, the old rose of strawberry, golden plum, limey
green of the gages, clear rose of rose hip and quince or rose hip and
crabapple, chartreuse of mint jelly. A host of other preserves were set
by for the long winter moons that lay ahead.
Today, Ten' and me continue the traditions of berry picking and
jamming, jellying and preserving. We continue using the same time
honoured recipes and while the paraffin and odd bottles have been
abandoned, the gifts of the land are still treasured and valued for their
sweetness and deliciousness and wholesome goodness. More recently
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a few precious bushes of soap berries and their gifts have been added
to our bounty preserved and saved for eating during the cold moons to
come.
We stumbled on the berries quite by accident. I learned some time
ago that there's no coincidence. Finding the berries was in the context
of acquiring other medicine. I've also learned that teachings don't
happen in isolation.
During the last several years walking my path has led me to
learning about and becoming what I was chosen to be. My journey
takes me between the worlds and becoming medicine is the path set
before me. Understanding this and feeling that one day it'd be time to
prepare, I started praying for the medicine born of eagles. To that end,
I had placed a request through proper channels for eagle parts, feathers
and such from the Ministry of Lands, Environment and Parks people.
At the time of my request, I had been told that my inquiry would
be recorded and entered into the computer database. I was further told
that it would probably be about ten years or so before my name would
get to the top of the list. Well, I had figured that'd be okay, since I
probably wouldn't be ready for such gifts until then.
But, I suppose the ancestors believed otherwise because within
two years since placing the original request, I received a call from a
staff member at the Ministry indicating that they had eagle parts available for me. He had also said that I could pick them up as soon as
possible: space, freezer space wasn't a high priority with the ministry.
So, Ten' and me made our way to the ministry offices, located North
of Nanaimo across from a park, where my prized eagle parts waited
collection. We stopped and parked along side a forested area. As I got
out of the car, I surveyed the bushes and trees and observed a particular bush sporting tiny red berries clinging in bunches along it
branches.
I'm always searching forests, beaches and other areas for
medicines or just things of interest the ancestors bring to my attention.
I've acquired many gifts in this way over the years.
So, puzzled and curious, I asked Ten' her opinion of what I was
looking at; she investigated and by the tone of excitement in her voice
I discerned that we'd made a fairly important discovery. She
approached the bushes and carefully picked a couple of the berries,
promptly popping one or two into her mouth. Well, she puckered and
winced so fiercely that for just a moment as I thought to myself that
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perhaps witches could actually look like they do in the books I've seen
over the years. When Ten''s face returned to its usual human form, she
smiled broadly and said rather excitedly that that was them. We'd
discovered soap berries and where were the pails? For an instant I
thought we'd found gold, maybe we had.
Ten' had been taught by her dad, my silu (grandfather) at childhood about the importance of soap berries and their uses and place in
Salish custom and practice. Those lessons had taken place long before
Grandpa went to be with Grandma, and now she was passing that
wisdom on to me. Ten' had always told me that she wanted to teach me
about soap berries before she went to be with her Ten' and dad. I
recalled thinking that maybe she was telling me something else
besides just what to look for and how to use the berries and root barks
and other parts of the soap berry bush. Elders, I remembered, often
knew or felt when it was their time and maybe Ten' was telling me by
not telling that she was preparing for another journey. I'm glad to say
that the discovery of soap berries on that day in July were just that, a
teaching about soap berries and not a hidden message to prepare to cut
my hair in the next couple of months.
Soap berries, aside from making a unique Indian confection, are
also used to cure ulcers and some cancers. Silu Silvey had taught Ten'
how to dig the roots and prepare them for making a tea with them, and
to drink it to cure ulcers and cleanse the blood of cancer. I remember
being told once that at the Craigflower School and Farm they used
soap berries as a mouthwash and encouraged their visitors to rinse and
swish before spitting out the juice. I thought to myself how very stupid
the xunitum were at times. What with their limited vision of using
Aboriginal medicines how could they not recognize the gifts they'd
been given?
Since learning about what soap berries look like and the habitat
that they enjoy most for growing, I intuitively began searching for
more of them. Our search has taken us across much of Vancouver
Island and areas that we would not ordinarily see if it were not for
looking for soap berries and their promises of well-being and good
health. We know that they grow along the highway on the Malahat; but
climbing up the cliffs, not including crossing that ribbon of death, is
most daunting and we have yet to gather sufficient courage to pick
them in those areas.
On the other hand, closer to the Land of the Fierce People
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(Nanaimo) we discovered a wealth of bushes that proved far more
accessible than those requiring climbing equipment and paid up life
insurance policies.
This most recent summer Ten' and me picked about three gallons
of soap berries and harvested enough roots to make tea for a number
of our ailing friends and family.
For two weeks at the beginning of June we rose early, breakfasted,
donned our hats, grabbed our pails and drove to the newly found soap
berry groves. During our time among the berries, I listened to Ten' tell
stories or we spoke to the occasional passerby who happened along. I
continue to add to my wealth and store of stories and family histories
in this way. And Ten' 's style of storytelling requires that I listen
carefully and make no interruptions. She has taught me how to listen
to the call of the "Visitor bird" and to count its particular trills that tell
how many visitors we would receive later that day, or later in the
week. I've now learned to get ready with tea and bannock when I hear
the "Visitor bird" call.
The incidental passerby always expressed interest in knowing
what it was we were picking; and ever so reluctantly I'd share with
them the nature of soap berries and their importance to us. I'm still
haunted by these revelations and wonder when I'll see soap berries
mass marketed and sold like any other commodity on the shelves of
health food stores and specialty markets on the Island. Maybe next
time I'll just pretend I speak only hul'qumi 'num' or hide until they
pass.
Each summer Ten' and me wander the Island in search of
medicines and berries and just to be with the land as the sun warms it.
With each day growing longer our journeys stretched further afield.
We've picked salal berries along the way to Alert Bay, wild celery in
Saanich and Parksville and Qualicum Bay. Indian Pipe can be found
during late July and August. This past summer the red huckleberries
were so full, just south of Ladysmith, that they bent low to the ground
burdened under their own weight. And the late autumn has given us
evergreen huckleberries, available in Sooke, until the first heavy frosts
of winter.
I discovered saskatoon berry plants while visiting a garden centre
and made the immediate connection between what I saw there and the
bushes that grow not more than a block or so from where Ten' lives.
We're still figuring out how we can transplant a wild goose berry back
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Gordon de Frane

to her garden before it's buried under highway construction. We
anxiously wait to know the fate of our wild celery patch that was
burned out as a result of teenagers using it as partying place. I say that
we'll be able to see more of it as it emerges from the land next spring;
Ten"s not so certain though. Ten' doesn't understand how they can be
so disrespectful of the land and the gifts it gives us so willingly and so
abundantly.
Next summer we're planning to travel to the "Elder's Gathering"
in Chilliwack and along the way look for sweetgrass and sage deeper
in the interior. Perhaps we'll also discover along the way family and
friends we've not known before; and more summertime memories will
be forged and created and reside in my thoughts waiting for transformation to ink and paper, waiting to be retold as stories.
There are many phases of the moon to come as we survey the
future. Each season holds the promise of harvesting and gathering the
foods that will be put by for the winter. And each will contain
memories that will be put by for later retelling and sharing with my
five daughters - nieces according to the xunitum understanding of
family. They will become winter moon teachings that my Ten', their
Sisilu (grandma) has shared with me.
It's during the winter months that the efforts of berry picking
season are best appreciated and the traditions and customs of a family
are reaffirmed for another year. When the rewards of our efforts are
eaten it's done so with thoughts of summer and with thanksgiving.
When each jar of fresh jam or jelly is opened, when a bottle of golden
peaches is shared for dessert, we are blessed with memories of our
Indian Summer.

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John Garfield Barlow

John Garfield Barlow

The Gift

One day, Falling Feather, a young Mi'kmaq man was walking along
the shore. Clam holes were spitting, and noisy birds feasted on
minnows stranded by the low tide in shallow pools. As he rounded a
point on his island home, he saw a man in the distance standing upon
a large rock. He followed the beach towards this man wondering who
he was and why he stood upon the rock. Nearing, he noticed the man
was very old and cradled something gently in his arms, a bundle that
resembled a small child. As Falling Feather approached he called out
to him, "What do you say old man?"
"I say the day slips away and the river will soon return," the old
man answered, never turning to look at Falling Feather. He looked
intently into a shallow pool that circled his rock. "I am waiting for a
man."
. Crossing his arms Falling Feather replied, "Which man do you
wait for, perhaps I have seen him during my walk."
"I do not know, but I was told he will come." The old man raised
the bundle he held in his arms, "I must keep this for him. He is on a
long journey and will need these things." The old man turned and
asked, "Why are you here?"
"I am walking." said Falling Feather, "That is all."
"Where do you go?" asked the old man.
"My journey has no destination," replied Falling Feather, "I am
only walking."
"Perhaps your journey is the destination," said the old man
absently, shaking his head at what he saw in the pool of water swelling
around his rock. "Why have you come to this place?"
"The sun was warm on my face so I walked towards it the wind
' Falling'
sweet and light on my back, blew this way so I followed."
Feather drew closer to see what the old man was looking at in the
water. There was nothing in the shallow pool but the old man's reflection.
Walking around the rock Falling Feather looked up to the old
man. "Do you stand upon the rock to watch for this one who is
coming?"
"Already the water around this rock has risen," he replied,

pointing to the shallow pool. "Soon darkness will fall and the river will
return. I am old and tired. I must stand on this rock or the river will
carry me away. I must be here for he who comes, it is important that
he receive what I hold. He will need these things for his journey."
Curiosity was strong in Falling Feather and he had to ask, "What
do you hold there old man, may I see?"
The old man unwrapped his precious bundle and revealed his
treasure; sticks, stones, shells, bones, grasses, roots and feathers. "It is
important that he have these," he said, looking into Falling Feather's
eyes.
"But these are just things, old man. Why do you carry no food or
weapons for this man to take on his journey? Why give him things that
are of no use?" Falling Feather shook his head and turned away. "You
will weigh him down with nonsense."
"There is much you fail to see," the old man turned to look at
Falling Feather, "these are more than just things." He held out his
bundle to Falling Feather. "Take the white stone. Can you not see?"
Falling Feather took the stone, tossing it in the air and catching it.
"It is a stone. Would you fill a man's pack who must journey far, with
stones?"
The old man took back the stone, rolling it in his hand. "This is
more than a stone I hold in my hand. Look and see." The old man held
the stone up to the light.
Falling Feather eyed the stone, "A stone is just a stone, like all
other stones."
"You do not see the arrow head that is in the stone? With it a man
can feed, clothe, and protect himself." The old man placed the stone
back in the bundle binding it securely. "You must always try to see the
truth that lies within all things. Things remain things until they reveal
their truth to you." The old man turned back to the rising pool of water.
"You carry symbols," replied Falling Feather, "they have no
practical use."
"They are symbols of truths. Everything has a truth that lies
within, and in truth there lies power." The old man tied the bundle
securely and turned to face the water.
Falling Feather could see the water had risen and turned to the old
man, "Come down old one, the sun slips away and the tides approach,
I will help you home."

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John Garfield Barlow

"I was told that a man will come and I must be here to pass on to
him what he will need," said the old man as small waves splashed
against the rock. "It is important - it is my purpose."
"The moon is strong, the tide will be high," said Falling Feather,
stepping up to join the old man on the rock, "You will serve no
purpose if you are swept away by the river."
"The river, like time, carries away all things." replied the old man,
"I will be no different. If I am not here when he comes, he will not
receive these gifts and they will be lost. I must stay no matter the cost."
The old man would not be moved.
"The sun is nearly down, if this man does not come before dark,
we will leave," said Falling Feather. "We can return in the morning
and I will wait with you then, but you must come home with me." The
old man did not move. "The water rises, I cannot leave you here
alone." The old man was silent as the sun slipped away and the water
rose, covering the stone. "Very well, I'll stay with you, but only to
keep you from being washed away in the night," said Falling Feather.
He put his arm around the old man's shoulder, "We wait together."
The rising water was cold and dark and the night was long and
silent. The men took turns holding the bundle above their heads as
they stood on the rock. Soon it was too deep for the old man to stand
and Falling Feather had to carry him and the bundle. Both grew tired,
and deep in the night the old man began to drift away. Falling Feather
could not save both and when he tried to save the old man, the bundle
was nearly lost.
The old man scolded Falling Feather, "I am old, it is my time
young one. These gifts must be protected and passed on to he who
comes, It is up to you now, if you fail all will be lost." Falling Feather
tried to argue but the old man swam away. Falling Feather bowed his
head as the old man disappeared.
The night was very long, it seemed that it might never end, but
light returned and the river retreated. Falling Feather grieved the loss
of the old man. As he studied the bundle he knew he would wait for
this man who was coming so the bundle would be passed on. Falling
Feather was grateful for the warm sun which dried him and he closed
his eyes to soak up its warmth.
"What do you say, old man?" The questioning voice startled
Falling Feather. He turned to see a young man standing on the beach.
"I am waiting for a man who is coming," replied Falling Feather.
62

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John Garfield Barlow

Looking at the young man he asked, "Where do you come from?"
"I come from a place up the river," replied the young man.
"Where is it that you go?" asked Falling Feather.
"I am walking, that is all," replied the young man.
Falling Feather looked down into the shallow pool surrounding
his rock and was startled by the reflection he saw there. He could only
shake his head as he saw his face, the face of an old man looking back
at him.
"What is it that you carry?" asked the young man.
"I am carrying what he who comes will need for his journey,"
replied Falling Feather, without looking at the young man. Troubled
by his reflection in the water, he shook his head as he felt inside of him
a truth struggling to be born. He turned to the boy, "Why have you
come here?" He knew the young man's answer would prove for him
the truth he felt inside.
"The wind blew me this way," the young man said as he looked
at Falling Feather on the rock. "What do you hold in your bundle?"
Falling Feather looked at the young man as he felt the truth, and
he held it tightly, but gently, to his chest.

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Marcelle Marie Gareau

The Keeper of Tradition

I

Marcelle Marie Gareau

I

were ceremonies that had been quietly passed down for centuries that
I could now honourably participate in. I could live and breathe the
beauty of my ancestor's ways. I could walk in their reflected beauty.
Through his example and keen understanding of the world, Mouchem
had been able to influence me by offering me what I had never
possessed - dignity.
Mouchem was a very tall and unassuming person who didn't take
up much space in a room, but you could feel his presence because he
radiated warmth and happiness. Mouchem took great joy in life and
many felt that joy. When I would go to the rez, he would shake my
hand and smile at me in such delight that I could feel my insides start
to bubble with happiness. He would say to me "If you stay here for a
week, I will come and see you every day," and he would. During this
time, I would feel an incredible happiness come into me. It was the
first time that I had ever felt that someone was actually glad to see me,
not for what I could do for them but simply because I was there. It was
my first encounter with acceptance for who I was. It also began to give
me the idea that perhaps our Creator, Kize Manitoun, hadn't made a
complete mistake when I was born.
Over the few years that I knew Mouchem he continued to accept
me for who I was. With Mouchem I never felt that I was too white too
'
dark, too fat, too skinny, too stupid, too smart, too lazy, too busy. I
never had the feeling that I had to change in order to be accepted by
him. But I wanted to change. I wanted to become more like him. I
wanted to walk in his footsteps. And Mouchem accepted and respected
this in me and helped me to heal through traditional ways.
When Mouchem left this world to go to the next, he continued to
care for me. One of the gifts he gave me was comfort after his death.
When Mouchem's nephew called to tell me he had gone, I felt myself
shut down and then I began to weep. Remembering some of the teachings, I said out loud to Mouchem "I'm not trying to keep you here in
this world Mouchem. I'm crying for me. I know you've gone to a
better place. I'm crying because I'm going to miss you so much."
Seconds after I spoke out loud to Mouchem's memory, my tears
stopped. I was no longer cold. I felt as if a quilt had been wrapped
around me and I was no longer in pain. I began to feel the same happiness I used to feel when I was near Mouchem. Even on his journey
into the next world, he had not left me. Some would say that this was
a state of shock or a manifestation of my imagination, but I know that

I
I

I am writing this to honour the memory of an Elder who made such an
impact on my life that in many ways I became a completely different
person. I first met Mouchem, through his granddaughter and my best
friend, Linda. Linda was doing her university graduate work on Native
education and Mouchem was helping her. He had asked her to take one
of his "talks" back to the university. When I met Mouchem, he was
eighty-two years old and a well-respected member of the
community he belonged to.
Back then I was a person that couldn't feel all that much except
for anger and pain. I had come from a family that had been tom apart
through alcoholism, violence, abuse and social services. I had no idea
of what love was. I had no idea of what acceptance was. All I knew
about life was violence, rape, anger, disrespect, and hatred. I saw no
value in my life. I wanted death. I wanted the ride to stop.
The first thing that I did because of Mouchem's influence was to
stop the self-destructive behaviour of drinking alcohol. Linda and I
were talking one day and she told me how "the old man" had spoken
about poverty and how he referred to poverty in the spiritual sense, not
the material sense. What Mouchem had to say about spiritual poverty
and about alcohol was that for Indian people and because of our
history " ... there is no dignity in drinking socially or otherwise."
When I heard these words, they went through me and shook my spirit
and my mind in a way that made it seem like a rumble of understanding went through my body.
When I thought about sobriety in this way, it became a political
statement about who I was and who I was not. It allowed me to reflect
upon my ancestors and I felt that by not consuming alcohol I was
honouring them. It was a way to show respect for their lives, their
traditions and the suffering they had undergone. Not drinking
connected me to them and my history of who I was, on this land. I was
no longer "this thing" that the colonizing forces said I was. I began to
understand myself and my role as a Native woman in an occupied
country.
In sobriety I also came to understand that although I continued to
be materially poor I could be spiritually and emotionally rich. There

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Marcelle Marie Gareau

Eric Ostrowidzki

just as Mouchem had shown me that there was a better life here on
earth, he showed me that there was a better life to come afterwards.
Years later I still carry Mouchem in my heart and try to show
people, especially young people, the joy that he used to show me.
When I was new to it I would think about Mouchem and try to imitate
him. I would think, "Now what would Mouchem have said? What
would he have done?" Mouchem used to go to the schools to give
"good talks" to the students and the teachers and later he would tell
me, "I told those teachers to just love those children, just love them".
So I would attempt to show people respect and kindness so they would
feel loved.
Slowly over the years, it started to become a part of me and now
often when I show respect and acceptance to a young person like my
niece. I also feel joy and delight in her presence. My heart no longer
seems to give out the hollow sound of a rock being kicked up a gravel
road. I am able to nurture her and talk to her about tradition and how
it fits into our lives. I have Mouchem to thank for that. His message of
love and tradition continues to affect me and others.
Although I miss him, the thought of seeing Mouchem again, when
my journey to the next world begins, fills my eyes with tears of expectation as I write this. I am no longer alone, because through him, I am
with All My Relations.
Marcee Mouchem, Marcee.

66

gubY Mossflower's Magic Quilt
She lived alone at the edge of an abandoned field
hastly with bloody carnations and translucent
gellow onions which croaked and pulsated
iike a legion of eyeless frogs. She lived alone
because her husband, years before,
had decided to become a pillar of unfeeling stone.
So he walked to the rim of the blood-muddy,
.
croaking field and turned into a smooth black stone monolith
which was silent as a fatal bullet-hole.
To keep her busy, to keep from falling into
the sullen torpor which overshadowed this anguished land, .
Ruby Mossflower took to quilting in her grey clapboard cabm,
piecing together quilts of Harlequin-checked patchwork - the
parrot-coloured blankets of a woman's dreams,
stitched with the multicolored braided strands
of an unraveled rainbow to blot out the glowering
beet-red, cast-iron sky. Ruby Mossflower lived alone.

While the blue-clawed darkness
scraped its way through the shell-thin grey shingles
of the clapboards, Ruby Mossflower had begun
a marvelous quilt, having a quilting bee with
an endless procession of Ghostly Female Quilters
which filed through her loneliness-haunted brain.
She would pin such scraps of material together,
patterned panels of cloth which all the
gallows-birds of black glass would bring to her,
squares of rags which a Wandering Ragman would
hawk like the tattered pieces of ancient maps
or like foreign newspapers from the Country of the Mad.
And so her quilt became a motley tapestry,
while the night bristled with jagged red stars and
lean green wolves circled and bayed around her cabin.

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Eric Ostrowidzki

The first Ghostly Quilter who

Ruby Mossflower worked by candlelight

came to her was an old Indian Woman who
was more radiant than frothy washed linen
immaculate in moonlight. Speaking with the rustle
of cat-tails swaying along a riverbank in pink twilight,
the Indian Woman sewed her part of the quilt,
adding what could be known only by someone who
could heal the sickness which spread itself across this land.
She stitched into the cloth the liquid silver of moonbeams
and the amber-gold flicker of a field of grain.
She stitched into the quilt the prayers and hopes of generations.
She stitched into the cloth the names of all her ancestors
who came before her, causing the quilt
to quiver with the milky green glow of fireflies.
She quilted her part of the quilt; and, by dawn,
the Indian woman was gone, vanishing
like an alphabet of transparent dew writ
upon a chalk-blue slate tablet in the morning sunlight.

upon her magic quilt, gathering the fabulous dream blanket
around her in shimmering voluminous folds and furls,
which glistened like a livid satin fresco or
neon graffiti winking across a flexible chrome wall.
While she darned and smoothed the living fabric
with her thick brown peasant-fingers, Ruby Mossflower
saw another Ghostly Quilter appear.
She was a Black woman. She wore a soiled orange-pink
kerchief bound around her hair like a turban of sassafras.
Her eyes were dark brown volcanoes of joy and rage.
When she spoke, she spoke with the soul-deep music
of blue-mahogany guitars and mockingbird-harmonicas
in a purple velvet grotto beneath a surf of whiskey ...

Alone again, Ruby Mossflower gazed upon
the polychromatic sheen of the quilt, noting with quiet apprehension
the fire-winged hawk flying across a vermilion horizon.
She strummed the quilt and it twanged
like a harp of blue wood smoke thrumming
with the odors of jasmine and primrose.
"Oh my!" Ruby Mossflower exclaimed, "Whatever
has this Indian Woman done to my quilt?
What has she added to the patchwork of my design?"
Feeling faint with fear, Ruby Mossflower gazed out the window
of her little silver-grey clapboard shack,
and she was surprised to see that instead
of the bare leafless tree fruited with stinking
rotten brown memories in the backyard, there was a
yellow-leaved oak tree which she had never seen before.
"Why have I never noticed that oak tree
before? What has my magic quilt made me see?"

68

And what did this Ghostly Quilter bring? What
manner of patchwork mosaic did she leave behind?
The Black woman had quilted into the rumpled tapestry
the agony of childbirth and the ecstasy of breast feeding.
She stitched into the bunched paneled cloth the
abundance of love and joy and sorrow and death.
Bright golden horned beasts streamed
from two trumpet-mouth cornucopia of amber gum!
When Miss Ruby Mossflower gazed outside of her window,
she saw not the granite bluffs which bulged
like the bald brows of stone giants,
but a Garden of Breath-pale Gazelles
grazing like a peaceful herd of pink clouds at dawn ...
not the black night which always surrounds any child's death,
but burgeoning yellow gourds fat with the
humming sweetness of a woman's manifold, multiform life ...

Astonished, Ruby Mossflower rubbed
her needle-&-thread-tired eyes, wondering how
it was possible for her magic quilt to re-embroider
the land as if there was power to stitch and sew
the good rich fabric of the earth. Where had
the Indian Woman and Black woman come from?
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Eric Ostrowidzki

And why did they paint the cloth stain glass with
shapes and forms which she did not understand?
Three nights later, the Ghostly Quilter of the Chinese Woman
had come to add rectangles of silk to the quilt which
flared into green rice paper fans
which unfurled into carven jade birds
which blossomed into emerald ceremonial daggers
which exploded into Japanese parasols of green sparks,
Burying her face in her hands, Ruby Mossflower explained,
"No More! For you have ruined the design of my quilt!"
She said, "No more - for I fear that I will see too much!"

And many days and nights had passed and
many Ghostly Quilters had come and gone.
And with the passing of these Quilters, there were many
changes to the land or how Ruby Mossflower saw the land.
And with these changes, her grey clapboard shack
had become a place of fabulous possibilities ...
Next Ruby Mossflower saw the Mexican Woman
enter the cabin one evening, saw the Ghostly Quilter
arrive like a Brown-Skinned Goddess of Purple-Blue Maize.
And when she left, she left behind her the quilt
which smelled strongly of chili and dill and orange cheese
and guava-juice and of the tortilla of poverty and the lime of life!
Beyond the iron-grey wood-framed window, a snow-white coyote
sang an aria which turned the stars into garlands of red peppers.

whose scratchy creaking melody wrings your memory when you are
old. Somebody baked a batch of walnut brownies upon
which a mirthful Ruby Mossflower chipped her tooth, laughing.

While the fabulous dream blanket grew to unknown dimensions,
Ruby Mossflower - Lone Seamstress of One Thousand Lonely
Nights - gradually realized that the Ghostly Quilters were not ghosts
but real Quilters. And Ruby Mossflower also realized
that she did not live in a shell-thin grey clapboard cabin
but in a many-roomed lavender and cream-coloured house
whose green shuttered windows were open to endless summer.
Thunderstruck, Ruby Mossflower exclaimed: "How beloved
are these enchantresses of the needle and the thread
who have come to quilt my life into
one thousand panels and squares which,
like some Hieroglyphics of Witches and Sorceresses,
bespeak of a community of women never seen, never told."
And with these words, and with the brightly checked
story of the magic quilt, a bedazzled Ruby Mossflower
gazed out the window and saw not a pillar of black unfeeling stone,
but a glassy azure column of sapphire;
she saw not a field of onions and menstruating carnations
but a field of honeycomb-yellow butterflies which
bore the limpid column of frozen water away
as if it were a tom remnant from the satin-blue sky ...

Soon, soon Ruby Mossflower's tiny
grey clapboard cabin became filled with Ghostly Quilters who
chattered and laughed and drank tea and blackberry brandy,
stitching the whole history of female friendship
which no man with leaden eye could decipher.
There was a woman from Ireland,
there was a woman from India,
there was a woman from Bolivia and Afghanistan and Iceland.
And the quilt grew and the room grew too,
and a gramophone began to play all the songs
which you can never remember but
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Dawna Elaine Page (Karonhiakwas)

Dawna Elaine Page (Karonhiakwas)

Familiar

My daughter, my sister
wove you into a dream
fed your hunger
cooled your anger.
You didn't look back
Brother Bear,
when you swam into the stars.

You came in the morning.
Shadowed sun through oak leaves
dappled your fur
but did not conceal you
Brother Wolf.
I did not run
I did not cry out
though you opened your throat
and swallowed the silence.

My brothers, stay and teach me
though the woods are empty
and the lake is still.

My father, my husband
sought you without violence
in the autumn trees
but you came to me
Brother Bear,
your dripping teeth
and steaming breath
inches from my fear,
and yet your dark silvered fur
dazzled my eyes.
I felt your spirit
touch my skin
and the scent
of your lifeblood
was warm.
I saw you leave at twilight.
Darkness stealing fire,
the last flame to go
burned in your eyes,
unblinking
Brother Wolf.
I saw no tears.

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Section 3
Knowledge

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Helen-Anne Embry

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The Knowledge

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It's in the wind.
It's in the pride and in the hearts
of grandfathers, grandmothers.
It's in the grandchildren.
Pride and pain intertwined into our every being as we pass down
stories of our history,
Tears and blood secretly fall upon our young faces as we dance
wildly in the night,
Stories that will never more touch deaf ears, for we are now wise
enough to listen.
The wounds of mother earth,
She shakes us from her leaves, her soil,
her mountain tops and great wide plateaus,
She knows not of rage, only how to heal herself.
We still have the ancient stars to guide our way,
The knowledge of our Elders and the sun to shine to stream upon our
bodies of gold,
And the glowing moon for us to obey.
Hate can no longer be an excuse
for what we have endured,
Only great gatherings,
celebrations of feasts and friends,
But most of all, the hope for everlasting peace.

John Berry

Old Man
Old man sits alone,
With his memories,
His body aches,
His vision blurs.
Old man once young,
Once a warrior,
A Father,
A Grandfather.
Old man sits and thinks,
Of berry picking,
and young love,
He once knew,
In days now gone.
Old man sits alone,
With his memories,
Of dances,
And distances.
Old man once young,
Was a builder,
A husband,
An Uncle.
Old man sits and thinks,
Of stories,
That he knows,
From days now gone.
Old man sits alone,
And remembers,
Many things.
Who will listen?

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Naomi Walser
Naomi Walser

Ojibwe Translations:
Boozhoo
Shkakmi kwe
K-chi mnido
Nishnaabek
Zhoonyaa
Miigwech

Original man
Mother Earth
The Creator
Aboriginal people
Money
Thank-you

f wealth ensures our survival; therefore, the more that is given away,
(Nana' boozhoo)
( Gitchi Manitou)
(The Colonized)

A Day in the Life of an Elder
"Boozhoo, Wauba nungo Kwe deznekaz Wabashoshi dodem
Chimnising ndoonjaba."

Hello my name is Morning Star. I come from Christian Island and
belong to the Martin Clan. I am going to tell the story of how ~any
moons ago our way of life was interrupted.
I am told that this dark time came to us over fifty generations ago.
Before then we lived very similar to the way we do now, except our
Shkakmi Kwe looked very different. Our Shkakmi Kwe is beautiful
today, but then, the waters were clear, the air was pure, and the earth
seemed to go on forever.
When our new found brothers arrived from across the water it is
said that they thought they had discovered a New World. Sure - we
may laugh at that thought today, but our First Nations were in grave
danger for a very long time. Our relatives in all four directions were
affected. Life became uncivilized. It seemed as though hatred was felt
for our Shka~i Kwe. Destruction and despair were in store, masking
her natural vigor. We tried to share ideas, but we were demanded to
abide by t~ese ~eceiving ways, or places very similar to the "Legend
of the Residential School" would be our new home. We were to be
deprived of everything that we know today.
Wh_en we ~onnect with the K-chi mnido ceremoniously, it is a
celebration of life. These traditions are very dear to us, and we use
them eve_ryday. T~ey a:e a part of everything we do in life, wedding
ceremo~ies, punfi~at10n ceremonies, all the way to naming
ceremomes. Our "give-aways" or "potlatches" are practiced to unite
our people. The guests are family and friends who we care about, and
the guest of honour is to give away gifts to all invited. Redistribution

78

~he greater the prestige. Unfortunately, our perceptions were different
between races. Our traditions and ceremonies were outlawed by those
demanding power. They only had one way of thinking, and because of
it we had to suffer.
.
This culture rape tore the heart out of our people. We were Just
empty shells for many years. Our empty shells were misgui~e~, and
introduced to a world full of lies and betrayal. One of the mam mgredients to this bribery was a form of firewater that seemed to help take
all Nishnaabek troubles away. But this firewater was only a "cover up"
disguising the problems that currently existed in our villages. Reality
became worse, making it very easy for our people to be manipulated
into believing our way as "wrong."
Even though our honoring of Nana' boozoo, used everyday in our
greetings, was comparable to their belief in "Christianity," they were
allowed to believe, and we were not. Basically we were forced to
follow, or have no care in the world.
I am also told that the favourite obsession of the past was referred
to as "money." Money was said to be a powerful trading device. We
know it now as zhoon yaa, but these days the only use for zhoon yaa,
is to start our fires. Other than that it is looked at the same as the rest
of the leftovers from the Last World ... garbage. We were competitors
in a game that we were unfamiliar with. We had to figure out the rules
for ourselves, but in the end it will all be worth it. As history has
proven, we can make a difference on generations to come.
Thanks to the persistence of our Elders before us, we have the
fortune to learn, and pass on our, once oppressed, way of life. As
generations have passed, communication between races has become
the most powerful tool. Now we can interweave ideas and exist unified
and strong. We are working towards the land that we have only heard
of, and when we have cleaned up the last of the colonial mess, we will
see the true beauty of our Shkakmi Kwe. We are on the path towards
decolonization. We started with accepting the Challenge to focus on
the Restoration of our culture; developing Teamwork creates
Leadership, producing Pride as the ultimate outcome. Everyone
contributes; therefore, we are all equal. And that, my children, is why
we need to take time to help cleanse and appreciate our Shkakmi Kwe
everyday.
Miigwetch, Waaba nungo Kwe
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Steve Russell

Steve Russell

What Indians Want

when you know the price
of taking a deer
without the deer's permission,

"What do you want?"
The Question comes
with and without good will
but it comes.

then we can talk.

"Acknowledgment of our history here!" says my Indian sister Ruth
Soucy.
"Denazification!" says my Indian brother
Ward Churchill.
These things and more,
and they will cost you dear!
More than giving the country back,
much, much more.
I think of the German civilians forced to file through the death
camps at the point of American guns,
how the civilians tried to tum away
but our Gis grimly insisted
and the German townspeople
stood there and cried, more
naked than the stacks of
naked Jewish corpses,
stripped of deniability.
Once you stand there
naked,
stripped of innocence,
bereft of "Indian depredations,"
without casinos or tax exemptions or smoke shops without myth or trivia,

I

when you stand there
naked as my hunger,

I

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Vera Manuel

Vera Manuel

JUSTICE
I am a product of Colonization
in this continent of North America;
A result of Cultural Oppression
by Church and Government;
A survivor of Forced Assimilation
and Genocide.
First Nations.
Indigenous.
Aboriginal
person of this land.
Yet, I do not speak the language
of my ancestors,
know little about the customs and traditions
of my people,
have never fasted up in the mountain,
have no song or dance,
no Indian name to define me,
and for most of my life
I could honestly say,
I don't know who I am.
When I look around my world,
I see my people,
in this land of riches,
confined to small spaces;
forced to fight everyday
to protect traditional territory,
living lives of poverty
similar to Third Worlds,
I feel my Rage stirring inside me.
I feel robbed,
A sense of Injustice.

82

When I look around my world
1 see the hearts and backs of my people
breaking beneath burdens
of unresolved grief,
nightmarish memories
of childhood trauma:
Residential School;
Day School;
foster and Adoptive homes,
generation to generation,
physical, emotional, spiritual, sexual
abuse and shame,
I feel my Rage stirring inside me.
When I allow my ears to listen
to voices of other people of this land,
who have no mercy,
no love, nor compassion
no understanding of its Unjust History,
who come for freedom,
opportunity,
adventure,
riches,
who stand on the heads of my people,
on the graves of my ancestors
and carelessly say:
"Why can't those Indian get it together?
They live off our tax money you know.
Welfare Bums!
If only they'd try to help themselves."
I feel my Rage stirring inside me,
camouflage for powerlessness and shame,
anesthesia for grief,
a sense of Injustice.
I feel unsafe in the white world,
to speak my views out loud,
to share my culture,
uneasy, mistrustful,
afraid those white people
83

j

,'i
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Vera Manuel

Charlotte Mearns

will speak the very words I speak,
steal the ceremonies,
the sacred circle,
sacred stories, songs and dance,
then use them to continue to oppress.
Tell our stories from their white eyes and lie,
sing our songs, do our dances,
wear our names,
copy our art and sell it.
I get nervous when they write things down,
so I tell them,
you can't write it down.
I fight hard inside myself
to see the human beings that they are.
I am a product of Colonization,
the result of Cultural Oppression,
a survivor of Genocide
I carry the burden
Of all the unresolved grief
Of my ancestors
in my heart, on my shoulders, in my gut.
In this lifetime
I have committed myself
to fight for Justice.
My brother tells me,
"It is INJUSTICE that is our enemy,
not white people.
REMEMBER, we are fighting on the same side
Dr. Martin Luther King,
Ghandi, Mandela and Geronimo."
We take responsibility for our Rage,
We fight on the same side,
for JUSTICE.

84

J(nowledge Keepers
From the north bank of their traditional territory of Musqueam, this
direct descendent of the First People of this Nation surveys the band
of attentive little listeners convened before him. Nodding in the affirmative (and just busting with pride), he witnessed each of us striving
to be seated the tallest on our choice of favorite logs. We all hoped
Great Grandpa James would notice how nicely we "under tens" were
maturing. These little listeners are his son's daughter's offspring and
they too were direct descendent of these First People. He knew the
impending lessons would reaffirm what their receptive little hearts
already knew, and would carry forward as the foundation upon which
they will build their lives. Seated before him are this nation's future
leaders.
Secretly, the eldest of these "under tens" (and wise beyond her
tender years), was keenly aware of why we were here. You see she was
put to task to corral this band of free spirits and convincing them to
settle was not difficult. The allure of spending a rare opportunity with
Great Grandpa James would not be missed under any circumstances.
Great Grandpa rose to his feet, each of us quickly scrambling
attempting to mirror his every move. Dusting, adjusting, drawing in
the warmth of the early afternoon sun deep into his (our) lungs, while
scouting the aesthetic beauty of this land.
In retrospect, the venue was perfect for the epiphany moments
that were about to be uttered out of the mouth of this great and gentle
man I am privileged to call my Great Grandfather. I have learned never
to question how he knew there was trouble-a-brewing among these
fiercely independent, competitive youth. At issue was this group's
choice of a leader for the first string of their field lacrosse team.
Hands now buried to the wrists, my Elder speaks of a time not so
long ago where there was a similar dispute over who would be best
suited to lead our community through the first of many long arduous
struggles. He spoke of a time that has not changed and never shall.
That is: our community is "chock-full" of present-day leaders, future
leaders and leaders in their respective fields of expertise.

85

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Charlotte Mearns

Charlotte Mearns

The combined application of these skills and experience, all
contribute to strengthen of the fabric of this community. The Creator
has granted each of us a set of splendid gifts as individual as we are,
and each of us will be called upon at some point in our life to lead.
Collectively, we must utilize these gifts and strive to identify the
sources of our conflict; and through mutually respectful dialogue work
toward resolution, not division.
Visibly navigating the recesses of his distant memory, he carefully
chose a series of real-life stories that depicted a difficult time in our
history, as a people striving to retain some semblance of culture in the
face of sustained assimilation practices foisted upon us by the once
"intruders," now having assumed roles as present-day governors.
The late afternoon summer breeze picks up momentum, fragrant
with the distinctive whiff of freshly fallen cedars in the distance and
gently depositing invisible crystals of saltiness to our lips.
We walked in silence, already practicing these newly acquired
tools of dispute resolution by not fighting over which of us would be
lucky enough to hold Great Grandpa's hand. Deference was afforded
to the littlest of these little listeners, who were most needy of the
comfort of that leathery bear-paw that held the most gentle of touch.
Specific details of the long list of overlapping stories with a cast
of hundreds are a distant memory now. The lessons however, are
indelibly etched in my psyche, and form an integral part of who I am
and how I navigate the management of my life.
My lessons of this indescribable man have been many and my
Creator has blessed me and granted me gifts of leadership, recently
summoned to the challenge. Great Grandpa's son (my Mother's
Father) informed me that I was "put here to help my people and that I
had a responsibility to go forth and achieve."
Present-day opportunities suggest that it may be my tum to lead
our people on a path toward greater relief for the many social-ills and
systemic injustices our people face daily. These lessons of conflict
resolution through leadership and consensus are shared responsibilities of we Aboriginal people. Only good can come from the renewed
application of these tools in our every day lives, under the ever-loving
guidance of these great men and women I am privileged to call my
ancestors.

From the north bank of their traditional territory (on what they
ow call the Fraser River), this direct descendent of the First People of
~his land surveys with great pride the band of "little listeners"
convened before her ...
... this Elder quietly speaks.
O'siem

I
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I
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87

Karen Pheasant

Karen Pheasant

This story is an experience I shared with some of the Lake of Th
Woods Anishnaabe Grandmothers, in the early 1990's. It is about:
dance our people shared with the Pow-wow dance world. It is a that originated in the Anishnaabe community, much like the origins 0;
other Pow-wow dances such as the Grass Dance and the Prairi
Chicken Dance. It was a dance not yet seen beyond the Northern Grea~
Lakes region, and far Northern Ontario region. The dress, songs and
dance were sustained within the Anishnaabe territory as a common
an~ recogn~~ed t~ad_ition at different societal gatherings held by
vanous fam1hes w1thm the community since the late 1890's.
In the mid 1980's, several Lake of the Woods Jingle Dress dancers
traveled to the Northern Plains to share the stories and intent of the
Jingle dress dance. These women danced at Pow-wows, and astonished the other dancers and people at the Pow-wows. Soon, after their
travels, many other women favoured the Jingle dress dance. It was
some years later, when the Jingle dance style found its way to
Oklahoma in the Southern United States.
In Oklahoma there was a particular family whose daughter
wanted to attain the appropriate understanding of this most recent
Pow-wow style of dance. This family traveled far from Oklahoma, to
reach the land where the Original Roundhouse ceremonies were held.
In keeping with cultural ways and practices, this family traveled
to the Lake of the Woods area with a drum and dancers and the inquisitive daughter who wanted to attain the true spirit and meaning of the
Anishnaabe Jingle dress. The father provided appropriate offerings to
the women and drumkeepers of these stories.
The dance floor of the Pow-wow was cleared of all dancers and
the visiting Jingle dress dancers were invited to observe and listen to
the stories first-hand from the dance floor perimeter. The green grass
dance arbour was thick, and ready for the Grandmothers to share their
stories of the dance. Once all this was initiated, the Jingle Dress
Grandmothers gathered to share the story in their language, as only
they could. The Grandmothers all stood in front of the Master of
Ceremonies booth, with a translator beside them.
The traditional drums had their place in the centre of the dance

arbour. Community and visiting Jingle dress dancers stood in earnest
anticipation of the original stories. The stories were about a dream
received by a Grandfather who had prayed for his Granddaughter. In
this dream were songs and women wearing the Jingle Dress. This
dream was given to bring healing and with the dress and songs, was a
dance to acknowledge and give thanks for that which we have - our
families, our lives and all that is around us.
Once the story had been told the drums started the appropriate
songs, and the Grandmothers stepped forward to bring the dance for
all to witness. The songs were not what you hear in contemporary
times, they were the original Jingle Dress songs. A different beat, a
different sense but with the spirit found common in our drum songs.
After completion of their dance and the song, the Grandmothers asked
all the Jingle Dress dancers present to enter the dance arbour. The
women were then asked to share, through their own dance, what they
had just witnessed.
Each women took her place on the dance floor, awaiting the first
drum beat for that intense first dance step for the Grandmothers. The
song started, each woman moved up on the dance floor within her own
domain, and danced to her own awareness of the song: some with feet
close the ground, some with spirited high steps, some moved closer to
the inner circle, while others remained on the outskirts of the dance
floor. As the song and dance progressed, the Grandmothers paused the
proceedings to reiterate the intent and purpose of this dance. It was a
dance done in a complete circle, with all women beside one another.
Not one was to be ahead or behind, much like traditional philosophies.
It was an equal partnership in sharing the gift of this dream to bring
healing to all: the children, the parents, the Elders in all parts of the
community.
The song was started again, and the women altered their approach
on the dance floor. This time, they stood side by side, not one to pass
or cross before another. All were in balance and flowed with one
another, much like the water at the shore near the dance arbour. Upon
completion of this portion of sharing the Jingle Dress story, the
Grandmothers sent blessings to many of the women present to sustain
the integrity and intent of this Jingle Dance. The Grandmothers stated
that it was good to see many women and other nations adopt this dress
and dance.

88

89

Untitled

Karen Pheasant

Julaine Dokis

They also stressed that it was important to understand and
acknowledge the original ways this dream and dance came to the
Anishnaabe People.
This event happened almost a dozen years ago. It is only recently
that this experience keeps re-appearing in my mind. Perhaps it is due
to the resurgence of many tribes and their dances gaining popularity,
acceptance and a contemporary fusion of them. Often times, at a
cultural event, our Elders comment on the strength of our young
people and their inquisitiveness to maintain our cultural ways, through
language, ceremonies, or song and dance.
This resurgence, and artistic expression is a current dynamic
phenomenon among our People. These experiences must be
supported, as our nation works at strengthening and healing. Along
with the support, one must recall and sustain the intent and integrity
the Grandmothers passed to us all.

90

Wisdom
Elders sing the song of mystery
tell again of your life's history,
speak of youth retold and share the teachings of old,
spin your tales of wisdom
so that my children may hear them,
sing with tones so soft though your voice will never be lost,
drum with hands now worn
revealing within them wisdom born.

91

Brent Peacock-Cohen

Brent Peacock-Cohen

Sweetness of Samson's Lion
In the words of our Elders
Lost in our intellectual past
We find an ancient concept People determining for themselves
Lost, though only 200 years ago
It was what we did

We need a defined land base
Governance that reflects our laws
People who speak our language
Educators who teach intuition
Put your ear to the ground
And hear the cry of freedom

The lion who came filled our land
With lines on the map, with new names
Fenced our yards and said they were not ours
Denied us our language
Educated us in their customs
Which hid our traditions
The wolves that speak for us
Broke out of their silence
Through Red Power slogans
Began conversations about our concepts
Our rights and freedoms as Nations
Our ability to determine for ourselves
The eagles pointed to the captikwlh
Our Sqilxw intellectual history
Narratives of the laws that made us
In a language only the old understand
The concept lies there
It is our right and responsibility to know
In university - we see more brown faces
First People with pride in their eyes
Sadness of the past in their voices
They further a cerebral conversation
To inspire the prophecy
We are the Seventh Generation
Sqilxw hear me speak

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Section 4
Honouring

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Richard O'Halloran
Yvonne Beaver

Thank You

For The Little Sisters

Before I came you went
Into places in my head
Places you didn't have to see
You saw the real me
Blinded and unaware
You became a teacher
Offering me a new life
Free of negativity and doubts
I'm different now
My past is unfamiliar in my mind
Incomprehensible feelings
Which rented so much space
They're diluted to the point
They no longer exist
Only now I exist
I smile and now I mean it
I laugh and now I feel rested
I never knew I could
Now everyday is a journey
A beginning and not an end
I thank you for your guidance
You're my sister and my friend

96

Moon.
C0 me and gaze upon the face of Grandmother
·1

See her rise majestic, with eternal sm1 e,
Ancient wisdom in far seeing eyes
As we dance to time's spinning tune.

Come and dance in the light of Grandmother Moon.
Let your feet move free to the rhythm of the tide,
Your body sway to night bird's cry
As time weaves moonbeams on her loom.
Come and raise your face to Grandmother Moon.
Feel the boundless power that brings the oceans rise,
Soft, the benediction in her sigh
As she glides mystic mid time's runes.
Come and accept the gifts of Grandmother Moon.
Take the secret joy that comes with woman's time,
Strong to love with motherly eyes
As she brightens time's dim lit rooms.

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Darliea Dorey

Darliea Dorey

Spirituality (excerpt from Moccasin Trail)
~rea~or, e~dlessly embraces one's spirit, supporting me like a butterfly
m flight m a soft warm breeze. When I feel despair and mental
anguish, the Spirit of the Creator boosts me up in a strong embrace and
lovingly, gently carries me spiritually over turmoil, as gentle and
compassionately as a baby in a cradle.
. _ Focus on the wholeness of one and the knowledge that everything
1s mterconnected to each other. Do not take from Mother Earth without
remembering to give back. Pay homage and show respect for all that
has been created in the Universe.
Since Creation, evolution has pioneered many dramatic changes.
Native Traditions, Medicines and Spirituality have over time proven to
be the foundation of Nations of people's oneness. Their belief in the
Creator and harmony with all entities has been the adhesive to many
peoples' legitimate focus on humanity and the strong belief and why
they are, and their purpose in life. Traditions and Spiritual belief is the
umbilical cord to who I am, why I am here to serve.
In Native communities families do not raise children alone
children are the responsibility of the whole community. Children ar~
an extension of ourselves, the continuum of our ancestors and the
unceasing evolution of the Creators blessed Sacredness of Life.
Children are our future and the continued passage of our people, which
we must protect and educate.
Our Elders are our past, which we must respect, learn from and
care for.
Aboriginal people have historically trapped and hunted this
spacious untouched forest region for many generations. The land mass
with the lakes, streams and dense forests have always provided
enough fishing and game to sustain the livelihood of many community
people for generations with fishing and hunting lodges.
The mountains to newcomers are breathtaking and their majestic
size and height topped with snow caps stand high around the valleys
and have a beauty which remains in the minds of many for a lifetime.
Aboriginal people have a deep respect for the land and the traditional ways of hunting, trapping and the gathering of food, necessary
to nourish their lives. This knowledge has been passed down from

98

generation to generation by our ancestors. Those who live totally off
the land were connected to their land in the same way that a mother is
connected to her unborn child by way of an umbilical cord. It is a bond
and that deep regard for all that has been created, that you do not disrespect or pilfer just for the sake of taking to be wasteful of greedy.
This lifestyle for children was their education which moulded
them for the future. By spending many years following their grandparents and parents in the bush to learn they were taught not to take
anything for granted. The Elders instilled knowledge through their oral
teachings, legends and their understanding for all life that the Creator
has kindly provided for us to use.
There was a way of life of coexistence with one another that
people respected and did not abuse. You did not waste, misuse or show
a lack of gratitude for what has been provided for our healthy
existence.
We often would be reminded by our Elders, to remember that
when you take something created in our universe, it does not belong
to you, so you must always give something back in return. We are the
role models for our children, who else can they truly learn from. It is
the way.

\

J'
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Janet Marie Rogers

Dawna Elaine Page (Karonhiakwas)

Blanket Statements

Bloodline

She wove her warm words
Into blankets
Then wrapped me in their comfort
Protected from insecure words
Placed on cold paper
As she spoke
Words puffed themselves
Into soft pillows
Made from dream stories
Where I lay my heavy thoughts
Filled with stale remembrances

Grandmother mine
in my face
you see a cousin, a sister,
a daughter
you hear not my name
though the black river of my eyes
is sightless as your silenced ears.
We speak in the world of spirits and visions
not blood and bone
but my hands remember
who you were
who you loved
and who, in silence,
you pushed away.
One man between us
hears your voice,
dries my tears,
but the keeper of the horses, now dead
survives in the screaming ponies.
My fingers still tangled in the pelt
of the red-eyed bear,
my strength not yet in my bones,
I cower. Strike out.
The blood on my hands is
mine Grandmother
hear me,
see in my eyes the stone
worn smooth by the river.

Her words released colours
Into dull comers
Her gestures decorating still air
Like wafty butterflies
With her deliverance
Hypnotizing me with positive suggestions
Relaxing tensions
With her honey laced tones
Her words are now my words
Sharing similar breath
Spoken in different times
My word weaving produces
Carpets where young ones play
Safe on dialect islands
Of silent promises
Encouraging, nurturing words
To grow on
Like food planted
In fertile fields

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Dawna Elaine Page (Karonhiakwas)

Dawna Elaine Page (Karonhiakwas)

For All My Relations

trees and rivers
become shadows
in the silence

(Katie Tarbell Herne, 12/17/1899-7 /31/2000)

one
hundred years ago
we buried the stone
beneath the birch tree

but the drum beats
in one heart
the water washes the stone
and the birch leaves fall
as one
hundred tears

one
hundred years ago
our grandmother was born
a child of change
turning centuries
tangled cultures
weaving old and new
into her cradle board
many knots were tied
one
hundred hours ago
our grandmother closed her eyes
one
last breath
held
one hundred years of history
a basket filled with feathers carrying water, driving horses,
the ringing of iron and laughter
calling us home
to play cards
tell stories
and listen

I
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Listen.
her words
will be buried with her
in the darkness

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rSilent

Dawna Elaine Page (Karonhiakwas)

March Moon
Grandmother Moon,
smile upon my daughter
and me
as we splash like otter children
in a bath of foam.
Grandmother Moon,
beam blessings upon my daughter
and me
as we gaze on your reflection
in a river of blood.
Grandmother Moon,
shower peace upon my daughter
and me.
Your ancient face shines down
through the silver rain.
May your celestial countenance
always remind my daughter
and me
of our Mother
Earth's womb
in whose waters we still swim.
You are the Clan Mother
of our heavenly ancestry
the spirit guide
of our sail in the cosmic sea
Even when your waters
no longer wash our shores,
bleach our bones like shells
and remember
my daughter and me,
Grandmother Moon.

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Lesley Belleau

l
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Drum

Time whispers by. There is no comparison to its stealthy drip, but it
feels so much like a drumbeat in slow motion, a memory of sweetgrass
in July. I am young and still tiptoe around the earth, pondering
questions, wondering at new springs, yet each year feels shorter and I
feel lost in the movement of things so much that at times my heart
beats silently still. This awareness has opened the eyes of the owl in
me, and ripped out the child. I sit here in the vastness of things and feel
time push me forward with wind-nudges and earthy brown silences.
When my son was born, he had the eyes of my father in death. The
definitive depth of knowledge that pierced into my mind-sense and
pulsed into my temples. The beginning and ending of knowledge, the
entire swim of the senses colliding into a first and a last. Eyes that
stalled my heart with the wisdom of fullness. I tasted the whole for
some sharp second with each of their stares until slowly I forgot the
taste of their pungent intensities and fell back into the walk of my
learning. What is it in those final and first seconds that expose
themselves to us observers? My mind is a fancy dance of questions,
ones which I forget, ones which I fear.
My father was a storyteller. His eyes were songs which danced us
to the moon at night. Over the years we'd heard thousands of his
adventures, his memories. We could trace the scars on his skin and
know of his battles. My sisters and I would gather at his feet and know
that he had seen the world, lived it, tasted the streets with the relish of
a bear in springtime. Our daddy was wise. But that was all before he
got sick. One day the stories stopped. He was silenced by tubes,
machines, morphine. His stories lay buried under his wealth of
blankets that lay over him like the field of grass behind Grandma's
house, where she said the coyotes roamed at night. He was a fly in a
web of tubes, a vault of knowledge slammed shut before we had gotten
our fill.
At nights I would peek into his room to look at him. I was too
scared to see in the day, when birds would brag their freedom to him
from his view out of the big living room window. I would scurry
through the house, eyes downcast muttering to myself, knowing that if
I asked him a question he would answer in his unfamiliar robotic

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voice, the tube vibrating in his throat, as clear as a thousand angry
bees. Soon, he almost stopped talking altogether. No one to hear, no
one to listen. It was his silence that provoked my discomfort. His voice
to me was the colour of his life, and nights were the only time I could
manage such silences, with the howl of the wind to comfort me. His
slow death seemed appropriate at midnight, when life was in hiding. I
would trace his shrunken body lined under the sweat soaked sheets,
remembering his tales of the residential school, the army, his years on
the streets. I would wait until my eyes adjusted to the dark and find his
tattoos on his arms, the ink turned greenish from age, and think that
once his arm-skin was a clear brown when he was a boy. The progression of age, of time's rapid movement was too incomprehensible then,
so I ran, ran and let my daddy die a silent man, his eyes watching me
under the dark, dark midnight moon.
Death happened like a passing train. We knew it was time. We
waited, gathered, sensing its arrival, circling his bed, waiting for the
headlights to appear. We heard its sound first. An increase in breath,
chug-chug-chug-chug, a buzz in our ears, a pounding of our own
heartbeats increasing with his breaths; the sound of darkness tugging
at our senses. Daddy's eyes opened. They saw everything at once, held
such knowledge of living that my mind swam. He held the elements in
his eyes, became hunger and thirst, animal and plant, heavy and lightness. My senses edged toward pain, my throat opened and closed
along with his. The train passed by, whipping forward like a perfectly
slung arrow, making the earth tremble, our legs tremble. Trembling.
And then the caboose. Always wave goodbye to the caboose. My arm
raised goodbye. CHOO-CHOO!! I slowly watched his mouth close
into a silence more pure, more tranquil than his last voiceless year.
Standing by his grave, I am furious at my own voicelessness his
last years. There were more. Stories. Untold stories. I want to inhale
them out of his body as I stand over the thick, earthy mound, and let
them sink into me, teaching me his life-walk, making his knowledge
more complete, more a part of me. There is so much that he had taken
with him. I didn't realize then how much he left behind, how much
he'd still give over the years.
My son was born howling, skin rage-red, eyes wide open
searching for me. When our eyes connected, I felt my daddy again,
laughing somewhere, the past twirling into the now like smoke rising
from a peacepipe. I was in the middle oflife for the first time, knowing
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the fullness, the connectedness, the circular path of everything. I was
underwater, sky-bound at once, the Salmon and the Eagle sharing one
being, and I knew where daddy went in his silences at last. I found him
once again. His knowledge has found me outside of death, opened
wide, pouring into me to offer to my son.
I can relax now, hear the winds speak to me during my own
silences. My worry has been absorbed into the ground, sucked down
hungrily. I watch my small son lay on his blanket, the grass licking his
heels, and understand that knowledge is ebbing into him each second
with each new leaf he sees in the tree above. I sit between all directions, just him and I, dreaming of the now. I am quietness, and the
world around me pulses, holds me in its drumbeat.

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Arnold James Isbister

Indian Eyes

Going Home

Draped here: somewhere between your
constant prodding
and clay-tinged existence
I begin a ride of earthed-edged journey,
tiptoeing around the urgency
of your rabbit kicks and my own startled heart.

"Wow, that's cool - you don't see this in the city," Warren thought to
himself as he gazed out of the cabin window. Outside, visibility was
about two hundred yards and getting worse as the wind increased and
the sun set. Looking at the pine trees, he imagined them groaning as
they bent from the gusts of wind; they would moan in unison, their
branches reaching out for something. "What are they reaching for?" he
thought, as he became lost in his imagination. "Maybe there's
something out there we don't see ... maybe spirits, maybe those bad
pointy-nose people Moshum calls "PAKAKOOS," he mused, remembering the legends. Those people of the forest that were always there
and if you didn't watch it, they would lead you deep into the forest lost forever. They were white as the snow with long noses that stuck
straight out from their faces, like branches of a tree, and they didn't
talk. Their legs, arms, and hands were gnarled, knotted and so skinny,
like the skin of peeling bark. They would motion with these hands,
smiling all the time to follow them. "This way," they would seem to
say... " Come, over here, no-no, this way, follow me."
BANG, BANG! Warren almost fell to his knees; someone was
knocking at the door. He stood there paralyzed, his heart loud in his
ears, so loud, in fact, that he began to think that it was his heart he had
heard and not the door.
BANG, BANG! Again, he jumped, no imagination this time. He
moved further from the door and over to the window near the table
where Moshum and Kokum were sitting. They smiled at each other, no
surprise on their faces as his stare turned to the door.
"PEETAKWAY! COME IN!" Moshum hollered as Warren jumped
for the third time.
"Don't do that, Mosh!" Warren exclaimed.
"What?" Moshum asked with a smile getting bigger.
"Holler like that!"
"Oh, sorry.... what you jumping around here for? Better go answer
the door."
At that moment the door opened with a howl, as a sheet of snow
came dancing in. A figure emerged from the darkness outside into the
orange glow of the interior. Squinting his eyes, Warren realized it was

My father died
an Indian with volumes of silenced tongues
in his palms.
He wanted a boy to shoot a baseball to in our dirt-drenched
reservation yard.
Us girls instead flattered him with brownies from our
Easy Bake Ovens
Our ball gloves lint-filled under Barbie dresses.
Now you are here baby boy
Inside of me,
and your movements are like my father's fast earth walk.
No whispers here
but drumbeats that fancy-dance under
my line of even rib.
I know you see him Daddy. He will throw a ball clear over
the power lines. Why couldn't you wait for him?
Draped here: in this place of winter silence
That I colour-fill with hints of crimson living
I go back to little feet that play hide and seek
with my fingers
somewhere in her tight-skinned belly,
and dream that my father's quick
Indian eyes are
watching
our earth history play itself out.

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Arnold James Isbister

Mrs. J., the old lady that lived by herself about two miles down the
road.
"What the heck is she doing here in this weather?" he thought,
glancing from her to the window repeatedly.
Moshum and Kokum both got up, shaking her hand warmly, then
motioned for her to sit down. They spoke in Cree as they sat around
the table drinking tea, then playing cards late in to the night. Warren
could make out the conversation in bits and pieces from the Cree he
knew, and as far as he could tell, they weren't really talking about
anything in particular - just small talk. But, to him, this was unusual,
a mystery that this elderly lady would come at night in this weather,
then just sit around and talk. He liked Mrs. J., but she didn't speak to
children much. Whenever she looked at Warren, it was with a warm
smile, more in her eyes than in her mouth. Listening to the wind
outside and the hushed voices around the kerosene lamp, he soon
drifted off to sleep.
He awoke to the creaking of the stove's oven door, glancing
sideways, he saw Kokum taking out some bannock, using tea towels
as oven mitts. In ten seconds Warren was dressed and at the table
eating steaming hot bannock smothered with margarine and
homemade strawberry jam. Having satisfied his hunger, his thoughts
turned to the events of last night. Noticing the calm outside, he
realized Mrs. J. was gone.
"Kokum, where's Mrs. J.?"
"Oh, she's gone. She left around two in the morning. Hooked up
the horses and went home."
"Really? Why did she come in the first place? In this weather?"
Warren asked in complete amazement.
"She does that whenever a storm is brewing. It brings back some
old memories, and I guess she likes somebody to talk to at those
times."
"Why? What memories?"
Kokum sat down then, slowly. With a tea towel in her hands, flour
on her face, she began in a whisper. "Well ... not long ago, there used
to be Missionary schools - do you know about them, Warren?"
"Yeah, a bit. I heard that when kids reached a certain age, they
were forced to go to school far away from their families and
sometimes not come back till they were sixteen or eighteen."

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"Right! This was compulsory. Families had no say and many
would cry when this time came. Some would move or hide their young
when the Indian Agents or priests would come around, counting how
many kids they had, and how old they were. It was a sad time. Mrs. J.
never did go to school, you know. She was about six years when they
came around to pick up kids for the Mission School. They took her
older brother, Matthew, who she adored. He was about eight years old
at the time, and she was too young. Ages for school were a little
different then. Her mom and dad were heartbroken and she cried many
nights for her older brother. She says she can still see so clearly the
memory of her brother being cramped into the back of a truck along
with twenty other kids, and as they drove off, the look on his face,
scared and sad. Those sad, sad eyes ... Anyway, things kind ofreturned
to normal, although they missed him terribly at Christmas time.
Christmas and Easter during those years were different too, mainly
celebrated by the white people, but there were still special - a time for
families to gather."
"I think it was close to Easter, when word came through the
Indian Agent that Matthew was ill, and for his dad to come and get
him. Apparently, all this time, Matthew had been homesick -very
homesick, and nobody thought it was serious. So, his dad hurried, got
some blankets, some food, and Matthew's favourite horse, a white
horse. To them, this was a joyous time, they would all be together
soon. Mrs. J. was so happy, she loved her family. With her brother
back, she knew her mom and dad would be like they were before. Her
Dad left right away, traveling for two days on horseback, for it was a
long ways away. Mrs. J. and her mother figured it would be four or
five days when they would be home. So, to keep themselves busy, they
planned on cooking, baking - all things Matthew loved. Those five
days turned to six, then eight days. By this time, they were worried.
Something must have happened, maybe Dad had injured himself, or
gotten sick. With help from the local priest and other families, they
began a search. After two days, they found them. In the middle of a
prairie, they saw a white horse standing by himself. Coming closer,
they could make out a mound of snow beside the horse. Clearing off
the snow, they could see blankets and under these, Matthew and his
dad, frozen. The boy was wrapped up in blankets and around him, his
father had him in his arms, as if to keep him warm. What happened
before this is really sad. After reaching the Mission, the father learned
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his son, Matthew had passed away - probably from a broken heart,
there was no other explanation. Gathering his son's belongings, he
immediately set out for home - against the advice of the school. They
were concerned because winds were picking up with the temperature
getting to fifteen below. In his grief, he heard little and was not aware
of the weather. A white-out must have happened - you know, Warren,
when everything turns white and you become lost. He must have laid
down with his son whom he had placed on a makeshift travois
wrapped in blankets. With the cold winds beating at him and playing
tricks with his mind, they figured he must have taken off his own
blanket and wrapped it around Matthew to try and save his poor son's
life.
Mrs. J. never forgot and never stopped grieving. Her mother was
never the same, and died a couple of years later, leaving Mrs. J. alone.
She was brought up by her uncle, who was very loving, but that time
still haunts her. She never did go to school after that. She got married
young and was happy with her own kids and after awhile, grandchildren, too. Her husband, Mr. J., passed away when he was sixty-five they'd been married for forty-five years and she's around eighty now.
Warren contemplated, he sat quietly now, facing the window. In
his mind, he visualized this tragic scene; his eyes open, but blind to
this world, he saw the story unfold and replay before him. Entranced,
he thought... this is one story he would not forget.

Homelands
Where the fires,
Of Creator still shine,
In the night.
Past the nests,
Of metal city lights,
Reflected in the sky.
Where the hills rise,
Towards the hawk's flight,
Above.
Past the scars,
Of Power lines,
Upon mothers skin.
Where the roads end,
And deer's path leads you,
Onward.
Past the stench,
Of modem life,
Find Eagle in flight.
This is Indian Country,
Hear the beating,
Of your heart.
Remember the land,
Breathe deep,
And go on.

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John Berry

Sundown

Reflections on Water

Standing with the old men,
Before the glory,
Of the red and purple sunset,
Giving thanks.

Sitting by water I look,
and see it move without effort,
around, over, under, through,
the bones of the earth.

With thanks,
For another day,
Of breath and life,
With my relations.

Clear and pure it flows like the people's spirit,
like our stories told,
by the old people,
without seeming effort.

Speaking without talking,
Before Creator,
With thanks,
For what is given.

The stones resist patiently, sometimes angrily,
like other peoples who deal with us,
many colored and shaped and hardened,
smooth, rough, round, angular, all kinds.

Days end will come,
To us all,
May we go on,
With thanks.

The water covers them all,
it covers and moves the stones,
without effort or judgement,
enduring it moves mountains.

Standing straight and clean,
At sundown,
Of another day,
Give thanks.

Finally, the water will win,
cleansing and purifying,
it's victory is final,
the stones disappear.
Moving without effort,
our spirit and stories will endure,
our victory in time, will be,
like water.

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William H Flowers

Wings of the Morning
" ... In thy book were written, every one of them, the days that were
formed for me, when as yet there were none of them ... "
Psalm 139

The early morning haze in the eastern sky mixed with smoke from
a lingering forest fire and set the heavens brilliantly aglow.
I was riding in a taxi on my way to the Goose Bay airport to catch
the thirty-five minute flight to Rigolet on Labrador's north coast. Over
the car radio, Great Big Sea blared out "Ordinary Day." The taxi
driver, taking on the role of weatherman, told me that we would be in
for another hot one.
I was relieved to be leaving Goose Bay.
Rigolet, the Inuit community where I was born, was always
special to me, especially in July. There, I could catch some of the
smells from the ocean and feel the easterly wind. The cold wind that
often comes in from the North Atlantic in the evenings following hot
summer days is what we called the "in wind."
I paid the taxi driver and carried my bags into the terminal
building. After I finished checking at the ticket counter, I turned to
walk into the coffee shop.
It was then that I saw her.
I blinked and as I did, some thirty-five years of my life were
suddenly erased and I stood transfixed before events of my childhood.
My heart raced as our eyes locked. It seemed like a giant wave had
engulfed me and transported me to another place and time. I believe I
felt the workings of a higher power.
This was no accidental meeting, and it would not be any ordinary
day like the song had been saying on the radio.
Her eyes were as soft as ever and her smile just as gentle. Maybe
even more so now that she had matured into the beautiful lady that
she'd become.
As we greeted each other, our conversation naturally drifted back
to the time when we first met.
Her presence was magic. In the booth together over coffee, I may
as well have climbed into a time machine. Memories of long ago
crowded our thoughts and our conversation. Memories of things that I

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thought I had forgotten ... until now.
In those moments, I went back to the Labrador I knew as a child ...
the Labrador of the 1960s.
I was thirteen in September 1965.
The changing season at that time of year makes the chill from the
fall winds seem menacing. The people of Rigo let would soon awaken
to an accumulation of snow on the surrounding hilltops.
It is a time for counting down days to when we can expect the
single-engine beaver to pay a visit. Julia Alpha Tango was the small,
red bush plane used mainly for mercy flights for the hospital. The
medical missionaries who ran the hospital and the school dormitory in
North West River, were known as the International Grenfell
Association. The "mission."
This September day though, the plane's arrival would not mean a
visit from the nurse or the doctor. Neither will it come to take a patient
away to hospital. This time its mission is to take me and several other
children away from our families in Rigolet.
The school year is about to begin.
September became a time of parting, a time of fear, a time of
feeling that dull, nauseous pain in the pit of my stomach. It was also a
time when my mother would weep in public as she'd hug and say
good-bye to us.
As the floatplane touches down on the waters of the bay, a feeling
of sadness and gloom settles over those awaiting its arrival. Taxiing to
the wharf, the propeller slows and comes to a stop.
There is no time left. I am placed aboard the plane and readied for
the flight to North West River, I crane my neck so as to look back
through the window and hope that they will see my wave. I try to put
on a brave face as I catch a last glimpse of Mom and Dad. Her hands
are up to her face. My Father is holding her arm and walking beside
her ... my little brother tags along behind.
Feeling as though I am about to enter an unknown world, I settle
back into my seat, not knowing how to prepare for the rest of my life.
A surge of pain starting as a choking feeling in my throat runs to my
stomach and all the way to my bowels, when I am struck by the reality
that it will be a full ten months, before I will see my family again. I am
already homesick. I think of things that I should have said before I left
but didn't. I think of hurtful, childish words that I would say now and
then, to my mom and dad, and to my grandmother, and to my eight
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year old brother. I wished that I could have just a few more moments
back there with them to tell them that I never meant any of those
things ... that I am sorry ... that I love you.
Education came at a steep price in Labrador in the 1960s.
As the plane takes off its engine revs so loudly that it can be heard
for miles. It lifts from the water and climbs in the air toward Sand
Banks on the other side of the bay and turns west toward North West
River. The echo of its engine off the hills seems to announce our
departure. It is a lonely, hollow sound to those left behind in Rigolet.
In an hour or so, I will begin a new life among strangers.
When I met her, she had already spent a year at the dorm and was
familiar with the place and some of the people. She must have thought
I was a little timid the first time we spoke.
I had trouble fitting in. The place was foreign to me. It was the
first time I had seen modem things like a motor vehicle, telephones
and flush toilets.
Some people liked to make fun of the way I spoke with a noticeable "down-the-bay" accent. I was ashamed and didn't feel good
enough.
Now when I think about life in the dorm with the fifty or so other
children, under the strict guidance of house parents, I think about
loneliness. I think about unappetizing food. I think about fear of the
unknown and a sense of survival of the fittest, with no one to talk to
who would listen or understand. Except you.
I think about how we became distanced as brothers and sisters. It
seemed to be expected that the price of fitting in, was not to consider
a sibling as a brother or sister, but as just another dorm kid. Recalling
this brought a painful emotion as I thought of some of the incidents
that led me to that conclusion.
Back then, you listened to me and did not seem to mind my timidness. Now as we sat waiting for our flights, her question to me about
abuse came as a surprise.
I thought for a long moment. Though I may not have experienced
physical or sexual abuse, I told her, the system itself was one that
caused the break up of generations of families in Labrador. For many
years, I have debated with myself, whether or not this could have been
abuse ... because there are plenty of hidden scars, I said ... and they are
just as real as those you can see. Behind each is a story waiting to be
told.
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She understood.
"Have you forgiven?" she asked. "I believe I have."
"Tell me more," I said.
She told me many things about her life after the dorm ... a rocky
road over which she had gone astray but found her way back. She
ended by speaking words from the Old Testament that " ..if I take the
wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even
there thy hand will lead me ... "
"Psalm 139," she said. "I read it often, and each time I do I find
peace and wisdom. If you are looking for answers, maybe you will
find something there too."
I thanked her for listening and trying to understand me in the mid60s ... and for this journey again today.
"I love you Billy", she said through eyes of mist.
We embraced for a long moment before heading to security. I felt
the tide rush out again and I believe I savoured the taste of freedom.
We flew north and to the east, toward the freshness of a new day.
Half an hour later, the twin otter landed at the airstrip in Rigolet.
I found that I could not wait to get to my father's house and open
the King James version to Psalm 139.
The words that unfolded in front of me were stunning. I might
have read them somewhere, sometime, before, but if I did, they were
just words on a page. Now, it was as though I could hear her voice
reading to me in 1965. I swear that she could have written that
passage. She has lived her life by these words. Never hating. Ever
loving. Everlasting.
I will consider my journey a success if I can live the rest of my
life being half the person that you are.
I will follow you.

Minnie Matoush

Minnie Matoush

had carried so much on my back that I was bent over like a hunchback.
Now I look back and laugh about it with my friends who care, and
with my family too. I am able to take a second look at all the turmoil
and learned to forgive my aggressor as I began to understand where all
the abuse was coming from. The real joy in healing is to be able to say
to the aggressor, I forgive you and I love you. Though, I have my ups
and downs, I am able to get up in the morning and say to the reflection in the mirror, You are special and You will be fine.
I am sure the Creator will bring abundance to your needs as you
begin a healing journey. So, today I would like to extend this unconditional love to you, Beloved Child. You are special and the Creator
has put you on this earth for a purpose.
May the Great Mystery, Great Spirit guide and protect you on
your Journey.

Dear Beloved Child
Written for you, to let you know how wonderful it is to have you on
this earth with us. I understand that life has put difficult things in your
path. I just want to say, not to despair and that healing does come when
we are ready to receive it.
I would like to share my story as a survivor of abuse to encourage
you to go on with your life. I know it's very hard to overcome our
hurts and to forgive our aggressor/s. It takes time and a lot of hard
work to face them. When I was first asked to write this letter, I had a
very hard time to find the right words to say. You see, I do not wish to
burden you with sadness but to shed some light on our common
darkness.
It took a long time for me to face my abuse and I wondered
around this world looking for love in the wrong places. I thought I
could find one person to love, care and listen to me and tell me that
everything will be alright. I went through my teenage years in such
turmoil and I confess that I too was at risk to commit suicide. I wanted
to crawl out of own skin and leave this loneliness and pain behind.
One day, I was given an awakening that affirmed my abuse. And
I remembered where, when and who it happened with. I remember that
day very clearly and how I felt. I shook very violently, and I cried with
all the energy I could muster. I wept in anger, in shame, insanely for
the innocence I have lost. I felt so betrayed and robbed of my spirit,
my physical, my mental and emotional being. I could not sleep for a
whole week and fear flooded my world. I finally realized that I could
no longer keep this terrible secret inside me. I needed to tell whoever
would listen, and called for help to release my madness. The hurt and
pain I felt that day was so real and clear in my mind. Slowly, in the
next few years that followed I felt like I was in Hell. I made some
major decisions to get help and begin my healing journey. I began to
put tobacco at a special tree where I would leave my fears and pain. I
searched for elders to calm my broken spirit and restore my health. I
thank the Creator for all the people that crossed my path to help me as
I began my healing. I didn't think I would see the light of day because
even the brightest day looked so gloomy. But as each day went by I
got stronger and able to lift myself up again. It was a bright new day
for me when I came through the first stage of my shedding my pain. I

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International
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Words from our Youth

Mena Mac

Reconciliation: Elders as Knowledge Keepers

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Today I am a strong-minded independent woman, very proud of my
heritage. As an individual, knowing who I am and where I come from
gives me strength and a sense of peace. It's what drives me to retain
and reclaim my right to live life according to the Lord while living in
mainstream society. I have forged my own path through self-determination and by reconciling with past wrongs. I face forward now with
a knowing, passed onto me from my Elders. I look to my Elders for
guidance because they represent the fabric of who we all are, the heart
and soul of our culture through time in the dreaming, constant and
eternal.
In our culture, a child is more closely related to their maternal
grandmother than their parents. This is our kinship and to this day
kinship is very strong in Aboriginal society. When I was growing up,
I spent more time with my grandparents than I did at home. I was very
close to Pop-eye (my grandfather). I adored him and he was beginning
to teach me our ways. He died when I was three and a half years old
and his death had a huge impact on my life. When I about four or five
years old, I cut my fingers using a razor blade, while I was watching
Mum sleep. It took me along time to come to terms with losing Popeye; in fact it has only been recently that I have grieved properly and
moved on. I still had Granny (my grandmother) and I used to go and
stay with her in Yarrabah on the Mission. I remember watching her
weave baskets and I helped her cook. She used to tell me stories about
family, who was who, how we were related and how I was to address
them. I loved it at Yarrabah, it was such a paradise. I didn't know it at
the time, but we used to have to get a permit before we could visit
Granny at Yarrabah. We used to live in a small town called Innisfail,
which is an hour's drive south ofYarrabah. Granny came to live with
us when she became sick and she died six months later. I was thirteen
and suddenly there was no more learning.
I never realised the extent of the fragmentation of our culture until
I became aware that it existed in my own family. I always knew I was
Aboriginal, but growing up with my Dad's family was very difficult
because although we are Aboriginal, we were told to say we are Malay.
This bloodline is through Granddad (my Grandfather). I remember I

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was ~r?ud _at home, but ashamed and confused in public about my
Abongmahty. I went through an identity crisis because I didn't know
who I was or where I belonged. I was a lost, confused, very angry and
lon~ly ~oun~ person. It was only_as an adult that I found out that Dad's
family identified as Malay publicly out of fear of the children being
taken away.
I suffered severe depression and I hated myself. I was starving
myself because of this self-hatred. I tried to change to fit in with
mainstream society but I always felt like I was on the outside looking
in. I was continually subjecting myself to abuse because I thought that
I was worthless and a waste of space, who didn't deserve to be here. I
was very sick, physically, psychologically, emotionally and spiritually.
The very thing that I turned my back on, is my salvation, my family,
my culture, my heritage to put it simply, I turned my back on me.
I auditioned at the Aboriginal and Islander Dance Theatre that's
based in Sydney. I was accepted and I started to learn about Aboriginal
and Islander culture. It was like I was picking up my learning again
from when I was thirteen. Leaming the traditions of other Aboriginal
communities from around the country ignited in me a desire to learn
about my culture and my family history. The more I learned and
understood, the more self-respect and self-worth I found.
In spite of this, I felt like something was missing and that I
wouldn't feel whole until I found it. Dancing helped me to get in touch
with my spirituality. I remember the first time I visited Wujal Wujal,
Pop-eye's and Granny's mother's home, my ancestral home. I heard
them, my ancestors taking to me. I felt the love and the belonging. My
picture was taken while I was there sitting on the rock, with the waterfall and the waterhole behind me. My ancestors told me to wash my
feet before I departed. This place is my story place.
After visiting home, I had a dream about me swimming there with
these two crocodiles. They would circle me and sometimes, I would
lay on their backs and dive in the water with them. It was really
strange because no one is allowed to swim there because it is sacred.
I told one of my granny's about the dream and she asked me if I knew
about the legend of that place. I said no, that I didn't, and she told me
about a mermaid who swims there with two crocodiles. The crocodiles
were in love with the mermaid and then she said to me, you are that
mermaid and you are the one, the chosen one. You are the only one
who must wash your feet before leaving the area every time you visit.
126

Mnw Moc

I It doesn't
matter where you go thi~ ~lace. is in your heart.
.
Life is no longer a struggle, 1t 1s a Journey. I am Kuku Yalangt
woman and I listen to my Elders for they are guiding me on my
journey. ~y a_ncestors are back; my grandparents are back ~ecause
they are alive m me. I know and understand that as long as I h~e, my
culture lives on, for it is eternal. Our ways are always there, be still and
listen to the Elders both in the physical world and in the spiritual world
and you will hear their words. Reconciling with the past has helped me
to heal and move forward. I feel whole now for I have reconnected
with love and found harmony.

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Kawennehawi Nelson

Mohawk Translations:
Raronhiena:wi - Name meaning, "He carries the sky."
Kats Ken:a - Come here.
Otkon - The Devil or saying damn.
Sheien:a teiesatonhontso:ni - Your daughter needs you.
Jenonkwatsherenha:wi iesaiats, Okwari nisentaroten, Kanienkehaka
nishato:ten - Name "she carries the medicine," you are bear clan, you are
Mohawk.
Was onen satorishen iah tehnen onen tesiaien ken:a ne aiesaioten,
Nia:wen a:kwe naho:ten nashe:re, was onensasaten:ti - Go home now,
rest, you have nothing to do anymore. Thank you for all you have done.
Go home now.
Shonkwaiatison - Creator.
Rakeni - Dad. Father.

Youth

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Reunited Hearts
"Uh, not this song again, HEY Morris change THIS song, we've heard
it five times now," yelled the man.
The song was Patsy Cline's, "I Fall to Pieces", and he hated it. No
wonder everybody who walked in was depressed and drinking. It's
them damn oldies. They're slow and depressing.
"Hey old geezer, shuddup," yelled someone in the background.
"Hey Franky, I'm leaving. See you tomorrow night."
Nelson Miracle was always at the bar, drinking his life away. He
had no family; they all abandoned him because he was always
drinking. He was never home. His real home was the bar. One day,
fifteen years ago, he wasn't surprised to go home, only to find the
house bare, as if no one had lived in it. Even the furniture was gone.
Wife and kids too, gone, with only crayon marker on the wall saying
good-bye. But he didn't care, as long as he had a drink everyday, he
didn't care about anything else.
"Bye Nelson," said Franky.
When Nelson got home, his house was a mess as always. Newspapers,
magazines, and take-out boxes lay everywhere. Fourteen years worth
of dust bunnies coated the furniture. The kitchen was even messier.

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Kawennehawi Nelson

Kawennehawi Nelson

"Raronhienha:wi," said a really soft voice, that he almost didn't
hear.
"Raronhienha:wi," a little louder this time.
"Boy, I must really be drunk. Now I'm hearing voices and
yesterday it was footsteps." Then suddenly he started to laugh, like
what he just said was the funniest thing.
"I'm really drunk. I'm going to bed," he said to himself.
"Raronhienha:wi kats ken:a."
"Otkon, I'm fifty-six years old and I still have an overactive
imagination." He laughed again.
"Raronhienha:wi kats ken:a."
But he ignored it. He went up the stairs to his room. He opened the
door and there stood a seven foot women. She had deep black hair that
was braided all the way down to her waist. Her skin was the color of
dark copper. Her eyes were light brown. She was wearing a beautiful
white buckskin dress. A bright light filled his whole room, but the light
switch wasn't on. When she spoke her voice sounded like an angel.
"Sheien: a teiesatonhontso: ni."
"What did you say? I don't speak Mohawk." The women looked
upset. "Yes, you do. Even though your daughter won't admit it, her
heart longs for her daddy's hugs. Your daughter needs you. She needs
you beside her, needs to hear your words. Her youngest daughter is
dying in front of her, she's dying from an inoperable tumor in her
brain. But the doctors are saying she's holding on for some reason, and
I know why. It's because your granddaughter wants you and your
daughter to reunite," she said.
"But she doesn't even know me, how can she want me and my
daughter to reunite?"
"She sees how her mother is sad about losing the only father she
has ever loved."
"Is she suffering?" he asked.
"No, she's in a coma; she doesn't feel anything, but she's asking
the Creator to hold on long enough to see her mother reunite with her
father. That's why I'm here. You're the only person who can make her
let go. But she's also scared of going home without knowing who she
is. You're the only person that can tell her who she is. Your daughter
is scared about how you would feel after no contact in years. Your
granddaughter knows all this."
"So you're saying, the person I've been locking up has to resur-

face, the person I've been drowning with alcohol, the person who is a
loving Grandfather speaking his language and knowing who he is. The
person that I don't want to be, has to come back?" he gasped.
"Yes," she said.
He had worked so hard to bury that person he was, the Native
man, the man he didn't want to be.
"No, I won't, I won't let that person come back. No!" he yelled.
The woman got upset. Through her fingers came something like
electricity and on his wall appeared a clear vision. He saw his daughter
sitting beside her daughter, her small body still, face pale, a scarf
around her head. He clearly saw that his granddaughter looked a lot
like him. He saw how beautiful and all grown up his daughter was. But
he felt a heavy weight around his heart watching his daughter sitting
there holding her small child's hand. She was singing a Mohawk
lullaby that he used to sing to his children.
"Okay, I'll go. Where is she staying?"
The next day he was walking down the halls of the hospital, looking
for room 5108. When he found the room he hesitated for a moment.
But he suddenly heard that song again, which gave him courage to
walk in. It was exactly the way he had seen in the vision. Only there
was a doctor checking her. He shook his head at the child's mother.
"Nothing's changed, she's still holding on," the doctor said. He
looked kind of upset, then walked away.
"My poor baby," she turned to her husband.
"Why, why is she holding on?" Tears ran down her cheeks.
"Um,umh," he said, clearing his throat, "it's because of me."
"Rakeni, what are you doing here?"
"She's holding on because she knows how sad you are about
leaving fifteen years ago and also for not knowing who she is. She
wants to go home knowing who she is. She wants to be able to talk to
Shonkwaiatison." His daughter looked back at her child, and she cried
even more. "I'm so sorry, sorry I never told you who you were. I'm
sorry for making you suffer."
"It's my fault too, for never being there for my family, never
telling you guys who you were, but, now I'll start." He went over to
his granddaughter and took her hand in his.
"Jenonkwatsherenha:wi iesaiats, Ohkwari nisentaro:ten,
Kanienkehaka nishato:ten," he started.
"Was onen, satorishen iah tehen onen tesaien ken:a ne aiesaioten.

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Nia:wen a:kwe naho:ten nasha:re, was onen sasaten:ti" Then
suddenly the heart monitor beeped and the line went flat. He saw the
woman next to the body of his granddaughter. She was there to take
her spirit back to the Creator. She didn't have to say anything, but he
knew his granddaughter was grateful for freeing her.
"O:nen." He turned around to hug his daughter, and they cried
together for a long time.
After that day he put his drinking days behind him. He now tells
stories of the language and culture to all his grandchildren and other
children of the community. Both he and his daughter are happy to be
back in each other's lives.

II

Elizabeth Kruger

Prayer

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Let it out
Let it go
Because what has happened
Is not show
I pray for you
As you sit there and cry
Thinking of the facts
Makes me sigh
All my strength
I give to you
To realize
That the tragedy is true
Cry and cry
And let it out
And if you have to
Just scream and shout
Don't feel alone
At any time
Because there is alot of us
Who are very kind
What I have shared
Is just to show that I cared.

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Elizabeth Kruger

Us and Stickgame

So if you ever need a friend
My love and wisdom I will send

You are so happy, you are so sweet
You are someone people like to meet

One more thing I must say too
Is thank you Dolly for being you.

There is a game that binds us as one
Our songs we can sing until the rise of the sun
Our voices together are so loud
That we often attract a very large crowd
One by one we choose the right bones
And sooner or later teams loose their tones
In the end we will win
Because we play fair and never sin
Stickgame is its well known name
And this is what makes us so much the same
Together again we do sing
And make everyones ears ring
We are the champs of this game
And we feel others feeling lame
Different places we do go
Just to have fun and put on a show
Having fun is what we do
And we're always looking for something new
In conclusion I say to you
Something that isn't new
Thank you for being there
Our love and friendship we do share

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Elizabeth Kruger

When That Day Comes

All I know is my love for you
Js so deep, so real and so true

'Sometimes things happen unexpectedly. People say God works in
mysterious ways, this must be true.'

And when I do lose you
J will never forget that day
when you told me that you loved me too.

What happens in life no-one can say
Until they reach that unexpected day
Accepting things that God decides
Is often hard and makes us hurt inside
When that day comes for someone
It's not the choice or fault of anyone
Dealing with that harsh pain
Can make someone go insane
It's so deep and penetrating
Like ripping your body apart
There is no pain as painful as this
What will happen when that day comes
For mothers, fathers, sisters and sons
How can we prepare
For such an awful scare
It hurts just to think about it
I just want to cry and get rid of it
The love we feel for so many
Is so deep, so real, so true
That it would just kill to lose you
I can't change what's going to happen
What will happen, or what won't

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Preston Gregoire

Anita Louie

Residential School

When I ...

You stole me from my family
when I was very young.
When I spoke my own language you
pierced my Native tongue.

When you first met me you
didn't know what to expect,
but you gave me a chance.
You listened when I needed to talk.
You stayed even when I
told you to walk.
So I respect you for that.
I wonder each day why?
You listened and stayed
after I told you off.
It seems like you were
there more than anyone else.
When I wanted to end my life,
you were there.
When I needed to talk,
you were there.
When I wanted to sit in silence,
you sat along with me.
You've seen me shed many tears.
For this you have respect, and a friend.
Cause when I needed a friend
at what seemed to be
the end of my rope,
you came into my life
to be a friend.

I tried to be strong
but instead I cried all night long.
I always felt down.
My smile was a frown.
This is the worst thing I have seen
hoping one night I would wake up from this dream.
If it was long, you would cut my hair.
When I was bad you took my air.
I could see that you had no cares.
Every time I climbed up, you tossed me
back down the stairs.
When something was wrong, I was accused.
I tried to convince but I still got abused.
I got blamed for things I didn't do.
Everything you told me wasn't true.
You always lied.
You told me my family died.
Every time you couldn't find me I took off to pray.
Asking God to bring an end to this day.
When I try to think of the happy times I remember
there was none.
When I ran away all I could do is run.
Remembering every day you fed me gruel.
My feelings spun like a spool.
When I got here the sign said
"Welcome to Residential School."

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II

Audrey Avery

One Unlucky Day

I

On a really unlucky day, an old Native man was walking to the grocery
store, which was only two blocks away. He had a blue hat on, the kind
all old Native men wear, and a plaid red and green shirt. He was
wearing normal jeans and weird work boots. He had a blade of grass
in his mouth and was chewing on it constantly. His thumbs were in his
two front pockets, making him look as if he had authority.
Just then a teenager on a skateboard came by and knocked the old
man over. He fell backwards and his hands flew up in the air. "Oops ...
sorry old man," the boy had hollered as he skateboarded away. The old
man didn't get up, instead he passed out.
"Oh no! Are you okay, old man?" a girl about seven asked him.
He started to stand up with her help. He brushed himself off.
"No, I'm not, some punk knocked me over with his skateboard!"
and he started to walk away as the little girl followed.
"You should go home to get some rest, because of what
happened," the little girl told him. He then smiled at her and replied,
"Since when did you have all the knowledge, uh?" and turned around
to go home.
"Don't know," she said and the little girl started to giggle. "I'm
going to walk with you to make sure nothing bad happens," she told
him firmly. He lowered his head and sighed, the younger generations
are getting more bizarre by the year.
A few minutes later they arrived at the old man's house. They both
entered silently, his house was small, but comfortable. There was no
need for him to own a bigger house; it was only himself living in it.
"Okay old man, what's your name?" the little girl asked. He
jumped at the question; he almost forgot she was even there.
"Why do you need to know, mmm?" he asked suspiciously. She
smiled the grinch smile, because her lips curved way up. "I think it's
very important to know who your Elders are, that's why." She said to
him sweetly. "My name is George Flayer and before you ask, yes I
know my last name sounds a little strange." And he sat down on his
chair in the kitchen. She sat in the one across the table.
"Well, I told you mine, now tell me yours." He practically
demanded. She smiled sweetly. "I know why people don't respect

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Audrey Avery

you." She said. George's eyebrows rose up, "Why?" he asked
expecting something insulting. He started to fidget with his fingers.
"You don't respect yourself, so how can others respect you." And she
started to tap her fingers lightly on the kitchen table. He gave her a
look that could kill, and when he usually did this, people usually got
the chills. To his surprise she calmed down and took a deep breath.
"My name is Sara."
"All Right, Sara, what do you want?" He asked her, getting
annoyed now.
"What if I told you I was more than just a little girl?" She asked
him. He thought about the question for a few seconds and replied, "I'd
say you'd better get help! I can't believe you people of today, you all
think you're very important and think we old ones don't know
anything ... " and he kept saying stuff about how important it is to
respect Elders like him.
"ENOUGH!!!" she screamed out loud. She stood up quickly
looking down at the very shocked old Native man. "I am a seven
hundred year old trapped in a seven year old body." She told him
firmly and with such authority that said he shouldn't mess with her.
Finally, he got the courage to speak to her. "Well, why are you telling
me?" he asked her.
In a cracked voice, "I need to die." She said flatly. She sat back
down on the chair and started to tear up. "The worst thing about life is
not death, it's living too long when your not supposed to."
George didn't know whether or not to believe her. She's just a
little girl, not an old woman. "Why would you want to die?" he asked
her, just so he wouldn't make her angry.
"Because I lived too long, way past my time and did things I'm
not so proud of." Then she lowered her head so that he couldn't see her
face.
"Straight to the point, what do you want me to do about it?" He
asked her. She raised her head to face him and gave him a great big
smile. "I want you to kill me!" and stood up to open the windows, it
was way too hot in the kitchen. He laughed, couldn't help it, but she
sounded ridiculous, how can she expect him to kill?
"Sara, I'm no killer, I'm just a crabby old man who gets thrills by
looking at the squirrels in my backyard." He thought about it a
moment and frowned. "How do I kill you?" She smiled; he was
willing to help her out.
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Audrey Avery

Audrey Avery

"Fire, fire is the only way to kill me." Then she stood up and
headed toward the door. "I know what your thinking, why didn't I light
myself, right?" He nodded. "No, I can only die if someone else puts
me aflame."
"Let's do it right now, that's if you still want to die?" and she
smiled.
"You want me gone that quickly?" He nodded and she started
roaring with laughter. They then headed outside in his backyard. They
were lucky nobody else was outside. George looked at the small little
girl; she had blonde hair in pigtails; how cute. He wondered how she
came to be this way; it must have been a real bummer to be seven for
seven centuries.
He then put gasoline on the little girl. What if she was telling a
lie? Would her parents come by to kill him? He was just about to light
her aflame when some weird guy in leathers came and took away his
matches.
"I don't think so old man! This old lady has to stay alive." Now
George got a good look at the weird guy and wished he hadn't. The
weird guy had a melted face and his two eyes were different colors.
One was black, the other was white. It was a really creepy sight.
George had a hard time from saying something bad about his appearance.
"Sara, Sara, tisk, tisk, you know better than to try and escape me!"
he told her.
"Hey, you never told me about this guy." George said and Sara
smiled weakly. "Um well, he's the one who put the curse on me." Sara
looked up at the weird guy to see what he would do.
"The name is, hey I don't see a need to tell you, you're just an old
guy" The weird guy turned toward Sara and laughed. "I told you,
you'd never die. The same as for the grass; it will always be green and
the sky blue."
George noticed a mysterious pouch on the weird man's waist.
Without even giving him time to think it through, he ran toward him
and stole the pouch. "Hey, you little creep give that back!" and the
weird man was after George.
While running, George opened the pouch and poured some of the
dust in it on the grass and he muttered Purple. All the grass turned
Purple and he said to himself: this must be wishing powder! He tossed
some in the air and yelled "Pink" and the whole sky turned pink. "Hey

don't mess around with my powder!" The weird man said, but George
didn't pay attention to him. He turned toward Sara and said "Dead"
and Sara began to die.
"Thank you," Sara said then she turned to ash. He dropped the
pouch on the ground and the weird man took it and rewrapped it
around his waist. "You idiot! Do you realize what you have done!" and
he went up to George and slapped his face. "That's what you get
stupid." And he stepped a few feet backward. He put everything back
to normal the way it should be. "Now George, it's your tum for
trusting little girls that know too much!"
The weird man then took some more powder out of his pouch and
threw it on George. "Beetle" and now George is an ugly bug. The
weird man picked up the beetle and put him in a glass jar. "You now
are my bug, and if you don't behave I'll just squash you, ha ha ha ha
ha!"
Then the weird man disappeared along with his beetle and no one
ever wondered where the old man named George went. When you're
mean and crabby, no one would want to visit and they would never
notice that you're gone.
That's the sort of thing that happens on an unlucky day, when you
trust little girls with high vocabularies. If you're not careful, it could
happen to you!

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Vanessa Nelson

Rokstentsherak:sen

One sunny afternoon in Kanehsatake, Hank and his little brother
Timmy decide to go for a ride on their bikes. They take the trail to go
up Blue Mountain. On their way up they see a big strawberry field in
front of a little house, which looks more like a shack than a house.
"Hey Hank, let's take some of those strawberries," little Timmy
said.
"But Timmy, that evil old man lives in that house. Haven't you
heard about him?" Hank said, shivering in goose bumps.
"You mean Rokstentsherak:sen?"
"Yeah." replied Hank.
"Yeah, I heard about him. He eats children, doesn't he?" little
Timmy asked.
"First he watches you pick his strawberries, then he comes out
and shoots you with his shotgun. And when you're dead, that's when
he takes you in his house and eats you up!" Hank said.
"Yeah right. He's just a crazy old man; he's not going to hurt a
little kid like me. You can stay here if you want, but I'm really hungry
and I'm going to go pick some strawberries and eat them right on his
crappy little porch. Then we'll see if those stories are true," little
Timmy said.
"Fine by me, but I don't want to be the one to give your eulogy."
Hank says, getting off his bike.
"Eulo-what?" Timmy asks, "Never mind, I'm just going to go
have a nice free supper now!" Timmy gets off his bike and walks right
into the strawberry patch. He seems a bit hesitant before picking a
strawberry, but then grabs all his strength and picks one out of the
patch. Hank back at the path covers his face with his hands. Timmy
takes the strawberry and it seems like forever before it finally lands in
his mouth. He then takes another strawberry and begins walking up
towards the porch of the house. At that moment Rokstentsherak:sen
comes out of his house with his shotgun and a bottle of beer in the
other hand.
"Get the hell outta ma yard you damn kids!" he yells at the kids.
Timmy eats the strawberry and then Rokstentsherak:sen takes his
shotgun, loads it up with some bullets and then shoots it. Both boys

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scream like little girls and Hank gets on his bike and bikes away while
Timmy falls on the ground and hurts his leg.
"HAAAAAAANK! ! !" little Timmy yells, holding his leg.
"DON'T LEAVE ME HERE! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE TO
DIE!!!!!!!"
Rokstentsherak:sen walks down his porch, accidentally drops his
bottle of beer on the ground, and nearly trips and falls.
"Ya damn kids make me drop ma beer. Yar gonna pay!" he yells.
He takes his shotgun and points it at Timmy. Timmy screams like a girl
as he shoots near him. Timmy crawls behind the strawberry patch,
letting his hurt leg drag behind him, and then starts to cry.
Rokstentsherak:sen is out of bullets now. He goes towards the patch
but then trips on a rock and falls on the ground.
"Are you, are you okay?" little Timmy asks the old man from
behind the patch.
"NO, I'VE NEVER BEEN OKAY!" he replies, yelling. Little
Timmy walks over to him and then tries to help him up.
"No, no. Get out you damn bugger," Rokstentsherak:sen says,
wriggling free of little Timmy's hands.
"But I have to help you, you're an Elder." little Timmy argues.
Rokstentsherak:sen gives up arguing and is helped to sit up by Timmy.
Timmy sits down on the ground next to him.
"Were you always like this?" Timmy asks, his curiosity getting
the better of him.
"Yes." the old man replies.
"Why?"
"Why do you ask so many questions?"
"I just wanna know," Timmy answers.
"Well, I would be down in town more, but I can't speak the
language, so they won't give me a job," says Rokstentsherak:sen.
"You can get a job outta town." little Timmy suggests.
"No I can't. The only things I know how to do good is the jobs
they have down here. It's useless anyways, look at me. I'm an old man.
I can't do anything anymore. People are afraid of me too for some odd
reason." Rokstentsherak:sen says, scratching his messy grey hair.
"Oh."
"Yeah. But listen you, you better learn the language. You better
keep it going too. You don't want yourself or your future children to
suffer, so you better not lose your language. Do it for me, if not for me,
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do it for yourself and your children," Rokstentsherak:sen says, getting
his gun and getting up to walk away.
"Hey! Where you going?" Timmy yells.
"In my house. I've said and done all I could. Now GET off of my
property. Timmy listens, getting up and limping all the way to his bike.
He takes a quick glance at Rokstentsherak:sen before pedaling back
down the mountain.
What Rokstentsherak:sen said that day stuck with Timmy the rest
of his life. He learned the language, and taught it to his children, too.
And when he heard that Rokstentsherak:sen had passed away, he
payed for the funeral and everything else. Few came, but Timmy
didn't care, because he knew the real Rokstentsherak:sen, and he
wasn't so evil after all.

T

Joel Morgan

Cedar
So strong and tall
You seem all knowing
Can you see where my life
is going?
Do you see my smiles
wipe my tears
know my joys
and calm my fears
You've learned a lot throughout the
years

The End.

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I

Joel Morgan

I

Fire

Eagle

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You wish for more, there is
nothing to hide, that funny
feeling is your fire inside
Burning to be better
flickering for fame
For if you dare get there
your fire will change
From your new knowledge
your flame it will grow
The harder you strive
the more you shall
know

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Fly towards the sky my friend
do not return or descend
for here on earth life is bad
How can you feel anything but sad
In the sky I see you dance
Why do you give them one
more chance
Look at this earth, it's
slowly dying
but you can't hear it,
It's silently crying

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Joel Morgan

Water

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Babbling brooks washing clean
the pain and the torments
of yesteryear
They Stole your Culture
Outlawing your song
if it's not just like us, it's got to be wrong
now we have freedom, or so I am told
but the future is endless, who knows
what it holds

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Jamie L. John

Modern Warrior
In the past there has been a certain name given for a person or
individual who was chosen specifically by his tribe to carry out certain
duties, the special responsibilities that were bestowed upon that
certain being has had the privilege of traveling to many distant lands
seeing what others only dream of.
These travelers also had specific tasks that must be fulfilled in
order to keep his title and honour, these people were our hunters, our
scouts for new lands, our protectors, these people were our warriors,
they fought to the death for their people.
The day of that reality has now come and gone and now we are to
co-exist with many different peoples of race, culture, beliefs, and
ethnicity. We as the original descendants to this land have seen many
wrongs done to all indigenous peoples of Turtle Island. Lands that
have been illegally surrendered, many wrongful deaths and punishments given to the innocent. To this day we still live in that form of
oppression. You see it everyday on television, hear it on the radio, and
through personal experience. Although it is silent you see it, hear it
and most of us have lived through it.
I have experienced this discrimination, racism, prejudice and
stereotypes, first hand. It still exists throughout our society, especially
in Canada, or should it be called KANATA. You always hear about
how great this country is on an international level. The best one to date
is, if you're in another country, and you wear a Canadian patch or flag,
that you will be treated with the utmost respect.
For what! Is this their greatest accomplishment. It seems to me
that the other people use this as an example, like it is their own
personal national trophy. I even see other nations, no matter their
background, treating all aboriginal people with disrespect, because of
the stereotypes that have been bestowed upon our nations. An Indian
is an Indian is an Indian, I bet this is another one that all of us hear. In
fact it is not, we are not Indians, we are not aboriginals, we are not
natives, we are not savages, we are not Bering Strait theory, we are the
original people to this land.
Our nations have been here for thousands of years. How else can
fifty million people come here, not through migration, that's for sure!

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Jamie L. John

Jamie L. John

Tell me, can you migrate that many millions, through the harsh
elements that the north possesses, it is only common sense that this is
an impossibility.
Sure, we are descendants of the Asian people, or are they descendants of us. Remember the super continent theory, see all their teachings starting to work against them.
I, myself, have done nothing wrong to the people that reside on
this vast continent, yet I must live and pay for something that I have
not purchased. It is a debt that has been brought on through the past
two hundred years. My ancestors as well as yours have not known
what we are paying for. Yet we must give up all the land, all the
resources, all the lost culture, tradition and innocence, all of it surrendered illegally.
It saddens me a great deal to think of what our ancestors have
gone through, not only does it make sad, but it is a lingering anger that
must be released. An emotion as powerful as that is Love, the love of
all indigenous peoples across the globe. There are only a few ofus that
see the future as well as the past and when the two emotions and time
lines are combined it is like a furious passion. A passion to not only
live but to succeed in this assimilated lifestyle that has been forcefully
given to us, a fury that has been passed down. it is like a gift from the
creator that has been given to only the chosen few. The few who
dedicate their lives to the modem day battles we are fighting.
I had the opportunity to watch a television program on APTN.
This program was about how Christianity has helped aboriginal
peoples and one of the gentleman on it had a quote that will always
stay in my mind, it was when they came over we had all the land they
had the bible, now they have all the land and we have the bible. Well,
to me that sucks, pardon the expression. I guess it is my youthful
tongue waiting to explode and destroy what I see and hear. That is true
and it is also false, you see the influence that our little brother, the
white man has brought over is now falling and it is weakening
everyday. My dad never had me baptized or taught me about religions,
but I did sit through many long pointless hours, days, weeks, and years
of lectures by a priest in a church under the catholic religion. Leaming
their ways but usually thinking of other things and for a good reason,
now I understand the will of my dad's intention, and I do have a sense
of why I am here in this time line that the creator has granted me.

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A long time ago, in the days of our ancestors, we fought amongst
each other for land and who knows what, but as I said before those
days have come and gone and it is now the future that we as the
original peoples must fight for, we must come together, support one
another, and be one nation and live the stereotype as, an Indian is an
Indian is an Indian.
We will use what they have given to us against their will, we will
overcome, and eventually we will succeed without swinging and come
out on top. We will use the gifts that the creator has given to us and
will live as those special people that our ancestors granted the right to
be the fighters and protectors, for we are,
today's Modem Warriors.

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Stephanie Lousie Squakin

Tupa (Great Grandmother)
As the warrior stands within
we want to believe in
She's strong and powerful
You see a Native woman, so beautiful.
As pretty as the stars shine above
deep down in a cove
You hear a bear's thunderous roar
You hear a drum beat, you open the door.
You see what lies within,
It's the heart of the brave warrior.
She struggled through her own battle
and won her own wars.
As the eagle stands by watching
She uses his eyes to see far, to catch their next prey.
As the eagle soars the sky
circling up above, he turns shy.
He flies away for just a mere second
he comes back warning her.
There is something coming.
She looks all around,
she finds what he sees, another being.
He wants her to fear.
He thinks of her as helpless as a porcupine.
She digs deep down inside
and finds the strength of wisdom,
voice and control.
He is as ignorant as a pig.
He stands as tall as a rig,
there's no self control.
So she makes herself on patrol.
She uses her knowledge,
her strength,
her power!
But he went to college
went the length

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Stephanie Louise Squakin

to try to be the perfect flower.
He's rotting inside
She knows his flaws
The warrior wins
her war again
She's the warrior that stands within.

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Biographies

Biographies

Biographies

A limited edition series of 16' x 20' canvas reproductions ofLeonard's above
paintings (in full colour) are being offered for sale to help raise funds so he
can continue his fight for freedom . For a brochure about these fine art reproductions, please contact: Tate Wikuwa, LLC, 3731 Overland Drive,
Lawrence, Kansas, USA 66049-2205

158

BIOGRAPHY OF LEONARD PELTIER - a father, grandfather,
artist, writer, and Indigenous rights activist - is a citizen of the
Anishinabe and Dakota/Lakota Nations who has been unjustly imprisoned for nearly twenty-seven years.
A participant in the American Indian Movement, he went to assist
the Oglala Lakota people on the Pine Ridge Reservation in the mid70s where a tragic shoot-out occurred on June 26, 1975. Accused of
the murder of two agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI),
Peltier fled to Canada believing he would never receive a fair trial in
the United States. On February 6, 1976, he was apprehended. The FBI
knowingly presented the Canadian court with fraudulent affidavits and
Peltier was returned to the U.S. for trial. Key witnesses were banned
from testifying about FBI misconduct and testimony about the conditions and atmosphere on the Pine Ridge Reservation at the time of the
shoot-out was severely restricted.
Important evidence, such as conflicting ballistics reports, were
ruled inadmissible. Still, the U.S. Prosecutor failed to produce a single
witness who could identify Peltier as the shooter. Instead, the government tied a bullet casing found near the bodies of their agents to the
alleged murder weapon, arguing that this gun had been the only one of
its kind used during the shootout and that it had belonged to Peltier.
Later, Mr. Peltier's attorneys uncovered, in the FBI's own documents,
that more than one weapon of the type attributed to Peltier, had been
present at the scene and the FBI had intentionally concealed a ballistics report that showed the shell casing could not have come from the
alleged murder weapon.
Other troubling information emerged: the agents undoubtedly
followed a red pickup truck onto the land where the shoot-out took
place, not the red and white van driven by Peltier; and compelling
evidence against several other suspects existed and was concealed. At
the time, however, the jury was unaware of these facts. Peltier was
convicted and sentenced to two consecutive life terms. He is currently
imprisoned at the U.S. Penitentiary in Leavenworth, Kansas.
To the international community, Peltier's case is a stain on
America's human rights record. Amnesty International considers
Peltier a "political prisoner" who should be "immediately and unconditionally released." To many Indigenous peoples, Peltier is a symbol
of the abuse and repression they have endured for so long.
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BIOGRAPHIES:

BRENT PEACOCK-COHEN is from the Okanagan Nation. He lives

AUDREY AVERY is a fifteen year-old Mohawk living in

Kanesatake, Quebec. She is now in Secondary 4, attending Ratihente
High School.

on IR 10 in Ashnola, BC. He just finished his Masters in Education
from the University of British Columbia. He is currently an instructor
at the En' owkin Centre and hopes to start his Ph D soon. His writing
attempts to connect tradition to the contemporary.

YVONNE BEAVER - Tuscarora, from the Six Nations Grand River

JULAINE DOK.IS of the Ojibway First Nations was born on a rainy

Territory in Ontario. Yvonne was born, raised and received her early
education in that community. From her mother came early lessons in
the art of story telling. She has a Bachelor of Arts degree in the Social
Sciences completed at the University of Western Ontario. She is an
active member of the Six Nations Writers group.

spring filled day in May 4th of 1972. She currently resides on
Manitoulin Island, Ontario, with her two daughters, Jessica and
Dariane. She plans to return to school this fall to study computers.

LESLEY DAWN BELLEAU is a twenty-six year old Ojibway woman
from Garden River First Nation, and currently residing in Toronto,
Ontario. She is a graduate from the four year English Literature and
Theatre Program of Algoma University in Sault Ste. Marie, working
toward a Master's degree in Creative Writing. She is interested in the
Native Residential School experience, as her father was a survivor of
Gamier School in Spanish, Ontario. She is also a proud mother of my
baby boy named Nicolas, who is her source of inspiration and the
heart of her existence.
JOHN GARFIELD BARLOW is Mi'kmaq of the Indian Island First
Nation in New Brunswick. In his third year student at St. Thomas
University, living in Fredericton NB, John lives with his wife April
and their son Oegatsa, which means Northern Lights in Mi'kmaq. He
has on the David Velezny prize for creative writing the last two years
for two short stories titled, Piggy and Buck Fever.

Choctaw/Cherokee/Scots-Irish heritage,
Husband, Father, Uncle, MLS, University of Missouri - Columbia
MA, Calif. State U. - Fullerton Native American Studies Librarian Ethnic Studies Library, UC Berkeley. Past President of the American
Indian Library Association, 1999-2000. Traditional Stomp Dancer,
Oklahoma Native. John is listed on the Native American Authors
pages of the Internet Public Library. Many of his poems have been
published in print and on the Internet.
JOHN D. BERRY -

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DARLIEA DOREY is a mother of five children and the grandmother

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of ten. She has spent the last thirty years working to improve the
quality of life for herself, and for Aboriginal people. She has participated on four trips to the United Nations. Three of those being as an
official delegate, with the Federal Government of Canada. She has
held National positions with Aboriginal Organizations in Ottawa and
has continued to focus on social issues facing young Aboriginal single
parents. Ms. Dorey is presently working on the completion of a onehour documentary on Aboriginal Offenders at Springhill Federal
Institution.
HELEN-ANNE EMBRY is involved in many volunteer efforts with
physically, mentally and terminally ill people, as well as animal
causes, environmental efforts, and sustaining the cultures of Metis and
Aboriginal peoples.
WILLIAM H. FLOWERS (BILL FLOWERS) was born in Rigolet,
Labrador, November 30, 1951. He is a member of the Labrador Inuit
Association. Bill graduated from Dalhousie Law School with a
Bachelor of Law degree, and articled for the Newfoundland Bar. He
currently works with the Atlantic Regional office of the Department
of Indian and Northern Affairs and is based in Halifax. His children
are Clinton - thirty-two, Jesse - twenty-six, Joey- twenty-two and
Allison - nineteen.

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Biographies

GORDON DE FRANE was born in the Chemainus Nation, located on

Helen is working to get her published book Shaking the Rattle Healing the Trauma of Colonization reprinted and is also working on
a play.

the Central East Coast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia. As a
storyteller, he draws upon his family's rich lives as fishers and as
saltwater peoples. His stories are informed by Salish teachings. He
participated in the Crazy Horse Aboriginal Playwright's Festival in
Calgary, 2001. His short story "Rock Medicine" was published in the
English Course Union's Publication Chaos, 2001. He also delivered a
paper on the subject of the "Chosen" (Two-Spirit People) at the
University of Victoria's First People's Symposium, 2001. He currently
continues his undergraduate studies at the University of Victoria.

ARNOLD JAMES ISBISTER has been artistic since an early age. He

received a scholarship to attend an Art School. In 1975, he attended
the International Banff Centre of Fine Arts. In 1976, he enrolled at the
University of Saskatchewan in the Bachelor of Fine Arts program,
later switching Majors to Psychology. He was employed by the
Regional Psychiatric Centre (a federal penitentiary) from 1980-1994.
In 1995, he re-established himself as an Artist and was accepted for
group exhibitions in SOHO, New York, NY and Nashville, TN.

MARCELLE MARIE GAREAU belongs to the Metis Nation. She

comes from a family of travelers. People who made their living as they
could and where they could. She has done the same and over the years,
travelling to many places to earn her living.

JAMIE L. JOHN a member of the Kehewin Cree Nation in Alberta

is currently completing his final year at En' owkin International School'
of Writing. Jamie will be continuing on at The University of Victoria
to complete his BFA. He has worked on projects involving film
making, directing, and acting. He is a traditional Grass Dancer who
has performed and toured. He has also performed Modern Dance.
Jamie loves his culture, which shows through in all his performances.

RICHARD G. GREEN, author, was born in Ohsweken, in Grand

River Territory. He was a columnist for Turtle Island News and
Brantford Expositor. He served as Writer-in-Residence at the New
Credit of the Mississauga's First Nation Library. He has instructed
Native Studies classes at Mohawk College in Brantford, Ontario, and
at Six Nations Polytechnic, Six Nations Reserve. His books include:
The Last Raven (1994), The Writing Experience, an Iroquois Guide to
Written Storytelling (2000) and others. He currently resides on the Six
Nations Reserve.
ROBERT VINCENT HARRIS is a member of the Sioux Valley

Dakota Nation. His first play Touch was produced at Brandon
University and at the Crazy Horse Aboriginal Playwrights Festival. In
2001, he participated in the Summer Institute of Indigenous
Humanities at Brandon University. He was a student at the En'owkin
International School of Writing, Indigenous Fine Arts Program.

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ELIZABETH MARIE KRUGER recently graduated from High

School with honours and is now attending College in Spokane,
Washington. She plans to excel in Computer Sciences and move on to
Engineering. She is eighteen years old and is part of the Okanagan
Nation, and a member of the Penticton Indian Band. She has been
writing poetry for several years but never tried to publish her poems.
She hopes to one day get a book published, composed of all her poetry.

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ROXANNE LINDLEY is a member of the Westbank First Nation in
the interior of British Columbia.
ANITA LOUIE is part of the Okanagan Nation located on the

BARBARA-HELEN HILL, MA is a writer and visual artist residing

at Six Nations of the Grand River. She is a Cayuga/Mohawk mother
and grandmother of two beautiful grand-daughters. She has just
discovered the wonderful medium of fiber arts and is presently
working on pieces for a show that she hopes to mount in the next year.
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Penticton Indian Band Reserve. She is twenty years old and a graduate
of Penticton Secondary School. She has lived on the Penticton Indian
Band Reserve for most of her life. She is the youngest in her family
with an older brother and an older sister.

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MENA MAC (TRACY MCCARTHY) is an Aboriginal (Kuku

CHARLOTTE MEARNS is from Musqueam First Nation. Charlotte

Yalangi) writer and has been writing for ten years. She has written
mainly poetry and recently completed a fairytale called 'The Magic
Serpents', a creation story based on the rainbow serpent. This is the
first book in a series of four. Mena has also written a trilogy which
includes: Mookai: (Mookai means grandmother in Mena's language)
the life story of her grandmother and great grandmother, The Winds of
Heaven: Looking at the lives of four Aboriginal women and how they
forged careers in the face of adversity, and From the Heart ofa Fringe
Dweller: an autobiography about Mena's spiritual journey.

has dedicated her career toward Aboriginal justice services and
programming in British Columbia, and recently has been involved in
the regional administration (with Lu'ma Native Housing Society as
the host agency) for the Government of Canada's National
Homelessness Strategy.

VERA MANUEL is Secwepemc and Ktunaxa from the interior of

British Columbia. She is a storyteller, poet, playwright and co-founder
of Storyteller Productions which produces plays and other creative
processes for addressing issues and challenges faced by First Nations
communities. Published materials include a play titled Strength of
Indian Women, Gatherings 11 and others. Vera has recently written
and produced a play titled Every Warriors Song.
MAXINE MATILPI is a member of the Kwakiutl Nation whose

territory is on Northern Vancouver Island. She works as a lawyer and
is the Chief Negotiator for the Kwakiutl Nation. She also teaches
First Nations Women's Studies at Malaspina University College. Her
other published works include Shortbread and Ooligan Grease and
Aboriginal Women and the Law: Colonial History/Current Reality.
She has three sons and lives on Vancouver Island.
MINNIE MATOUSH is from the Cree Nation of Mistissini Lake,
Northern Quebec, and acknowledges her ancestry from two First
Nations of northern Quebec, Cree-Naskapi and Montagnais descent.
She grew up in Mistissini Lake, and takes pride in being able to speak
her mother tongue, Cree. Currently she works as a social counsellor at
Cree School Board, Post Secondary Student Services in Hull, PQ. She
is enrolled in a Masters in Education at Ottawa U., doing her concentration on Career Counselling. She is a single mother of two. Her son
and daughter are in High School.

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KAWENNENHAWI NELSON is a fifteen year old status Mohawk

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from Kanehsatake, Quebec. She is in Grade Nine at the Ratihen:te
High School in Kanehsatake. Kawennenhawi is fluent in Mohawk and
proficient in English and French. In 2001, she was awarded the
"Aboriginal Youth" Bursary of $750 from FAAY (Foundation For The
Advancement of Aboriginal Youth). Her goals are to either study
medicine or become a teacher of the Mohawk language.

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VANESSA NELSON is a Mohawk from Kanehsatake in Quebec. She

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is currently attending Ratihen:te High School. She is fifteen years old
and was published in Gatherings J1 in 2000. She is thinking about
writing a novel.

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VERA NEWMAN is an Elder from the Namgis First Nation in Alert

Bay, BC.
RICHARD O'HALLORAN is an Aboriginal who is very interested in

becoming a published poet/author. He is a Mohawk born to Wahta
Territory in Muskoka, Ontario. He began to write at the age of nine
and has been using it as a passive form of coping ever since. He used
to write of usually negative issues because that is what he was going
through at the time, but has recently changed to more guiding forms of
positive affirmation.
DAWNA ELAINE PAGE (KARONHIAKWAS) is a mixed-blood

member of the Mohawk Nation at Akwesasne, living with her husband
and three children near Chicago, Illinois. She hears the stories of her
people crying out to be told, and does her best to capture their words.

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JANET MARIE ROGERS has returned to her place of birth, British

Columbia after growing up in her father's ancestral territory of the Six
Nations Reserve in southern Ontario. Janet has several self-published
chap-books, and has other published works in a variety of genres. She
performs some of her literary pieces as spoken word and performance
poetry. She has received invitations to perform her poetry in cities
such as New York, Washington D.C. Wellington N.Z. and Toronto just
to name a few. She works as a First Nations Support worker with a
school district in Victoria B.C.
DAWN M. RUSSELL is currently walking Mother Earth as a member

of the Syilx Nation, Penticton Indian Band. A single mother of one and
employed with the Surrey School District as an Aboriginal Support
Worker; Dawn spends most of her time and energy being a positive
role model to all those she meets.

Don't Look Like One series. He has written television scripts for The
Beachcombers, North of 60, Street Legal and The Longhouse Tales.
Other avenues of expression include a regular column in three
Canadian newspapers (as well as frequent articles in numerous
magazines) and the director of the film Redskins, Tricksters and Puppy
Stew, a documentary on Native humor from the National Film Board
of Canada.
NAOMI WALSER belongs to the Beausoliel Band from Christian

Island. She is a twenty-five year old Aboriginal woman, currently
enrolled in an Aboriginal Studies program at Langara C.C. She has
had the fortune of travelling around the world playing for the
Canadian Field Lacrosse Team. Through the years she has discovered
that the sky really is the limit!
ADDITIONAL CONTRIBUTORS: Preston Gregoire, Joel Morgan,

STEVE RUSSELL is a citizen of the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma.

Eric Ostrowidzki and Karen Pheasant.

He is an Associate Professor of Criminal Justice, Indiana University at
Bloomington. He is a retired judge, past President of the Texas Indian
Bar Association, and a member of the Native Writers Circle of the
Americas and the Wordcraft Circle of Native Writers and Storytellers.
STEPHANIE LOUISE SQUAKIN is a member of the Lower

Similkameen Indian Band of the Okanagan Nation. She is presently
working as a summer student on a environmental renewal project.
Stephanie will continue her education in the fall, taking a Long Term
Care course, which helps her to take care of the elderly in her community.
REBEKA TABOBONDUNG is a member of the Wasauksing First

Nation. She is a video documentary maker, poet, and dedicated
community activist, her works are provocative. Rebeka has traveled
extensively through Central America working to build meaningful
links between North and South Indigenous Nations.
DREW HAYDEN TAYLOR is Ojibway from Ontario's Curve Lake
First Nations. He is an award winning playwright, journalist and
author of 13 books, including three books in the humorous Funny You
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