Gatherings VIII

Shaking the Belly
Releasing the Sacred Clown

Theytus Books Ltd.
P.O. Box 20040
Penticton, BC
V2A 8K3

Gatherings
The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples
Volume VIII - 1997
Copyright 1997 forthe authors.

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Gatherings
Annual
ISSN 1180-0666
ISBN 0-919441-67-X
I.Canadian literature (English)--Indian authors--Periodicals.
2. Canadian literature (English)--20th century--Periodicals.3.
American literature--Indian authors--Periodicals. 4. American
literature--20th century--Periodicals. I. En'owkin International
School of Writing II. En' owkin Centre.
PS8235l6G35
C810.8'0897
CS91-031483-7

Editors:
Associate Editors:
Page Composition:
Proof Reading
Cover Design:
Cover Art:

Joyce B. Joe & Susan M. Beaver
Greg Young-Ing, Jeannette Armstrong,
Graham Angus & William George
Marlena Dolan, Regina (Chick) Gabriel
Anna Kruger
Vivian l..ezard, Lil Schepps
Marlena Dolan
Bill Cohen

Poetry by J.B. Joe has been previously published in West Coast Line Magazine, SFlJ &
Only Approved Indians Made in USA, by Jack Forbes has been previously published
in Only A1mroved Indians. (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1995)

Table of Con
Trickster

\v1At< 1 3 2000

S.F.U. LIBRARY
Once More With Love!
Ines Hernandez-Avila
SERIALS
2
Coyote Makes New Colours
Leanne Flett-Kruger
4
He's At It Again
Barbara-Helen Hill
7
two tricky guys
Vera M. Wabegijig
8
Nanabush and the Mud Ducks
Sandra Lynn Lynxleg
12
Napi Jumps Into the TV To Visit "North of Sixty"
Sherida Crane
Feminist/Mother/Woman
Poem of 29 Lines Series O1
J.B. Joe
when i'm not there
Susan M. Beaver
Daughter
Linda George
Don't Burst the Bubble
Kimberly Blaeser
Untitled
Sharon Proulx-Turner
Squaw Guide
Marie Annharte Baker
Memories Two
Barbara-Helen Hill

17
18
19
21

22
29
32

Song
Please send submissions and letters to Gatherings, c/o En'owkin Centre, 257 Brunswick
Street, Penticton, BC, V2A 5P9, Canada. All submissions must be accompanied by a selfaddressed envelope (SASE). Manuscripts without SASE's may not be returned. We will not
consider previously published manuscripts or visual art.

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

Students of Scat
Kimberly Blaeser
Are you sure Hank done it this way?
Kimberly Blaeser

35
37

Dark Humor
Pass It On
Mickie Poirier
Poem of 29 Lines Series 1
J.B. Joe

Colonization
41
42

Identity
Only Approved Indians Can Play
Made in USA
Jack D. Forbes
Swing Your Ta Ta 'Round and 'Round
Sarah D. Lyons
Quail Trail
Mickie Poirier
That Sounded Like This?
Crystal Lee Clark
Looking for the injuns
Barb Frazer
Untitled
Anna M. Sewell
Discovering the Inner Indian
Anna M. Sewell & Crystal Lee Clark
Of The Sphere of Politics
William George

45

47

85
86
88
89
95
98

50

Children
51
52
53
56
58

Horne
Road Signs Poem
Marie Annharte Baker
A Ball Story-Related to Some of Us by An Elder Okanagan
Cowboy Story Teller In the Traditional Way
Bill Cohen
Twelve Steps To Ward Off Homesickness
Kimberly Blaeser
BINGO!
Sabrina Whane
The Hunting Party
Stephen Pranteau
The Metis Dance of Doom! Eagle Soar, Eagle Soar
Trevor Cameron
Okanagan Recipe
Jeannette Armstrong

Poem of 29 Lines Series 2
J.B. Joe
Shifting Savage Moods
Sherida Crane
Elementary Choctology
Don L. Birchfield
Sunday Chicken and Soft-Spoken Tom
Gail Duiker
The Seven "C's" of Canadian Colonization
Drew Hayden Taylor
Last Ditch Religion
Marie Annharte Baker

61
63

64
66
67
79
82

The Team of Cheese Bob
Bindi Ritchie
Long Ago
Jacqueline Oker

101
103

Celebration
jeff low is a fag
Susan M. Beaver
Drum Dance
Jeffery Mantia
Excerpt from Letter
Mickie Poirier
medicine-n-magic
Annette Arkeketa-Rendon
banned in canada
Susan M. Beaver
Art
Ken Gervais
Day of Sun
MariJo Moore

Biographies

113
117
118
119
123
124
129

130

Introduction
WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF LAUGHTER
There are complex categories of indigenous humour. There is a type of
humour that only Elders can share. There is a type of humour which belongs
in women-talk, man-talk, children-talk, and of course, Trickster-talk. There
is Rez humour. Then, there's the humour which celebrates our survival, our
triumphs over history. There is humour in clowns. And all this humour is no
less than sacred. The A Priori statement upon which this is based is that We
are sacred. As Lame Deer put it,
"We Sioux spend a lot of time thinking about everyday things which
in our mind are mixed up with the spiritual. We see in the world
around us many symbols that teach us the meaning of life. We
Indians live in a world of symbols and images where the spiritual
and the commonplace are one. To us (symbols) are part of nature,
part of ourselves, even little insects like ants and grasshoppers. We
try to understand them not with the head but with the heart, and we
need no more than a hint to give us the meaning,"
(Lame Deer 1972, 109)
as in the Longhouse experience where clowns play a part in ceremony, so
we, in our everyday experience, need to accept the clown, play, celebrate
and laugh.
JBJ
Gathering Thoughts
My brothers used to come up from the reserve for weekend visits when
I lived in Toronto. My partner and I are calm people and so is our home.
They took over our house, oh yeah, that gramma oak dinner table shook
with laughter - ours and a lot of her own. That table loved the elbows resting on her back, the bellies pressed against her sides. She's a round thing
and the laughter whirled around her edges; it kept swirling until the pork
chops were bones or somebody choked on a potato (then we laughed harder.) All that laughter born and raised on the reserve came uptown and blew
the smog from the city and I felt at home.
Then I came to En'owkin. Try keeping a straight face around here.

I sense a theme.
Before I began sifting through the pages and pages of submissions, I
expected to laugh. Yeah, I did. But as I read the stories and poems they
reminded me that our masks aren't just spiritually powerful, they're beautiful. As I read them I remembered that our dances aren't just beautiful,
they're spiritually powerful.
Like all of our contemporary art our stories are never 'one thing.'
Among the works you'll find here are very few laughs just for the sake of
laughing. In each of the pieces lives a teacher; there is hurt, there is thought,
there is culture, colonization, spirituality and on and on. Some are introspective, others gaze on the big broad world but none of them are 'just
funny.'
This made the task of dividing chosen pieces into thematic sections very
difficult. Nearly each piece deserved it's own section. There were works
that were hurt when placed in one section - they became limited and
restrained. These stories got up and jumped into another part of the book
and are quite happy there. There were other works that stood proud on their
own but when placed in a section opened up - they grew in interpretation
and through context. There were a great number that, like much Native literature, defied, even actively resisted being placed in one category. These
stories had no defining characteristic but could encompass colonization,
celebration, trickster and more. We did the best we could. The trickster stories however, were alive and very much comfortable in their role as trickster
stories. They fit together all cozy, all carrying that trickster medicine either
high on their heads or strapped to their backs (butts in some cases) but each
carried it in one way or another. They, of course, appear first in the anthology.
I sensed the presence of the trickster in the production of this anthology. (Who's idea for a theme was this anyway?) After a few hours of proofreading, every word looks wrong.
But here we all are. Ny:weh and a big hug to: Marlena Dolan; the editorial committee - Jeannette Armstrong, William George and Graham
Angus; Regina Gabriel; all the authors who sent work in; Anna Sewell- she
knows why; and finally to my mentor, advisor, co-editor, sometimes boss
and always friend, JB Joe.
Welcome to Shaking the Belly - Releasing the Sacred Clown Within. Or,
for those of you who are dyslexic (tricky, huh?) like me, welcome to releasing the belly - shaking the sacred clown within. Enjoy!
Susan M. Beaver

Trickster

Ines Hernandez-Avila

Once More With Love!
He's just a wily old rub-you-the-wrong-way, big pawed, sorry looking yet
somehow kind of magnetic Coyote, even at his most pitifullest! The most
aggravating kind, hey, that's just the way coyotes are. Now, you can get
offended with him if you want. He probably intended it. He just loves it
when you fume, you see! In fact, when you don't fume and you throw his
foolishness back to him instead, with a big old grin yourself and a flick of
your hips and a swing of your hair, you'll make him really mad. But while
he's telling you off, yelling that you 're the cause of all his woes, and calling
you a goddamned woman, and going on about how no one does things right
anymore, least of all some snippity woman, and if he starts commenting on
your appearance, and how you're not as pretty or as young as you used to
be, and how he's a man, and he has physical needs, and what's your problem anyway, then you know you've got him, if nothing else for a second or
two. And all the while he's going off on you, he knows you've got him, too,
because he's a real good listener, and while his mouth is flapping away with
a mind of its own, he's leaning up against the wall of his own brain checking himself out and kicking himself for falling for his own trick. But he's
intrigued, too, because he was expecting a predictable and boring win, and
now he's got a fight on his hands, and in that moment you're anything but
unattractive. In that moment he wants you, he wants you bad.

Leanne Flett-Kruger

Leanne Flett-Kruger

Coyote Makes New Colours

"Coyote shhh! Ifyou don't be quiet I'm going to have to start all over."
"Okay, okay, Jeez."

I'm gonna tell you a little story, cuz I ran into Coyote just now. I'll tell
ya, when I first got here Coyote was laughing so hard, he was rolling around
on the ground. I said "Coyote what are you laughing at? ... What's so funny?
Hey... wait a minute ... what'd ya do Coyote?"
He laughed and laughed until I started laughing too. Next thing I knew
we were both rolling around on the ground laughing. My eyes were all tearing up and my nose was all running. Then I remembered ... "Oh ya," and I
stopped laughing, "What'd ya do Coyote?"
He told me. He said, "Well you ever notice about them flowers? There
are a lot of flowers around but mostly just white ones, blue ones, and red
ones." Coyote noticed there were no green, or orange, or yellow flowers.

"Wow look at those nice yellow flowers!" she said and picked one up.

"ya, no yellow or orange or. .. "
"I know Coyote, I'm telling the story now okay."

So, Coyote was taking a pee on a blue flower bush, and he noticed them
flowers turned green.
"ya, ever nice that green one."
"Shhh."

"Well isn't that perty" Coyote said, "I think I'll try that again," So he
went around and peed on the red ones and they turned orange.
"I didn 't say perty, I said per-it-ty, like the proper way."

"He-he-he-he-heee."

She held it to her nose and sniffed and sniffed. She just loved the smell
of that flower.
"Ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaaha."

Well that girl, she wandered off with that flower to her nose, talking and
laughing to herself, oh but by then Coyote was laughin' a lot harder.
That's when I came along. He was laughing and told me that story, then
he said to me, "That Wabegijig, she liked that smell so much, I bet her
ancestors long time from now will still be smellin them flowers, just like she
is."
"You're probably right my friend," I said, "You're probably right."
That's the story. It's finished now.
"Finished? I didn 't even get to say anything. Oh well. That girl she sure
likes my smell eh? ... Maybe that little Wabegijig girl, maybe she wants to be
my wife eh? ... he-he-he-ha-ha .... Funny two-legged creatures you ones ... I
don 't smell your pee.... I did a nice job of them colors though ... especially
that yellow eh .... don 't you think? ...... hey, are you still listening? ... hey!...
Where's everybody going? ... "

"My that's awful nice," he said admiring the orange ones.
When he got to a white bush and made a pee, he heard a girl coming
along the path. He recognized the voice, cuz she wuz talking and laughing
to herself.
"It's one of those Wabegijig girls, I think I'll hide behind this here
bush," and he did.
"Ya I'm ever good at hiding. I just put my tail between my legs like this
and... "
2

3

Barbara-Helen Hill

He's At it Again
It was at Returning the Gift that I heard of him. Oh he was present at
many socials and many many classes while I was living in Penticton. But it
was this special trip that he really showed himself. He must have been rooming at the same hotel that I did. He got a hold of the switchboard somehow
and he fixed it so my phone would ring every half hour from 11 :30 at night
till 8:00 am the next day. Seems he wanted to make sure I knew that there
was a phone message for me.
He then must have gone to Vancouver. I never saw him around but I felt
his presence. He must have sat on the runway in Vancouver because my
plane that was supposed to leave at 1:00 pm on Monday never got to
Kelowna until 3:45 that afternoon. He must have had some chuckles too,
because when he got that plane to Kelowna, it was what you call raining cats
and dogs. I heard someone say, "when you run for the plane make sure you
watch out for the poodles," so I knew.
Now I thought that he resided in the west. I figured that when I got home
to Ontario and then on to Buffalo, to go back to school, I could leave him in
the Okanagan. NOT!! He followed me again. After my return from
Penticton and Kelowna and I'm happily back at my studies, I get a letter
from the financial aid office. Now this isn't too bad for some people, but this
makes the third one since school started, and by now, they are getting a little testy. I go traipsing over to the financial aid office to see what can be
done and there he sits on top of the computer. Because he is sitting there eating his lunch the financial aid officer cannot pull up my records. I'm to
come back the next day.
Okay. Now it is the next day and I'm back at the financial aid office.
This form has been sent and re-sent at least three times and it needs to be
corrected again. Something about illegal alien on the paperwork. Hmmmm!
Now I see him in the comer chuckling and I'm just about in tears. The load
is getting too heavy. I finally find out from the office that if I go to south
campus and meet with Mr. Soandso then maybe he can straighten things out.
Off to south campus and make an appointment with The Man. For next
week. Oh well I've been at this for two and a half months now. What's
another week.
In the meantime I get another letter from a different office where I am
registered for a Special Major. More paperwork because the University has
not accepted the two English courses that I took at the En'owkin and
4

Barbara-He/en Hill

because Canada is a foreign country, my two year certificate is not accepted. What to do? Do the paperwork, write the letters and the proposals all
over again and take the required extra courses.
Well, now the proposals and letters are done for the special majors and
I'm scheduled to take the extra courses in order to graduate. Now what?Yep,
the financial aid office wants to talk with me again. Well, this time it's the
meeting with The Man and he has written a letter that changes my status
from foreign student to NY state resident. That settles it. I'm now down to
only owing about $5,000.00 from the $17,000.00 they quoted me in
September. Okay, where is he? He's not there. He's gone? I hope so. Has he
gone back to Penticton?
Nope. He's baa-aa-ck. I make the dean's list in the fall semester. My
marks are in the A's and B plus area and spring semester. I'm expecting to
graduate with honours. Nope. Guess who is there at the records and registration office waving my transcript around and laughing? He is doing somersaults when the lady tells me that the A's and B pluses from the En'owkin
transcript does not count because it is a foreign school. According to them
I'm a good student, but not good enough, according to their records. Then
too there is the three awards I'm recommended for. Yep he is waving the
awards and throwing them up in the air where they land at the feet of someone else. The dean says I haven't been at this school long enough to get the
Arts and Letters award for outstanding students. I've only been here for one
year. Okay I can live with that. I get the Art award and he is there with a
smirk on his face. Oh well, I'm proud of that and he can't take that away
from me now.
Graduation is over. I got my BA and registered and accepted for the
Masters program. I'm on my way. Summer job of writing and researching
Iroquois History- just what I wanted and my arm is giving me trouble. Hard
to use the computer. Hmmm, could it be? Yep, I go to the school medical
office and guess who is sitting at the reception desk? He takes my history
and sends me to physical therapy. I played football as a kid, and now it acts
up. The arm is still sore, but I won't let him win. I feel him every now and
then, jabbing me in the arm, and I just get up and leave the area.
The book signing has been going well. Every little bit counts and on
Sunday I'm on my way to Rochester, NY, to do a signing and reading at
Borders Books. I'm riding the bus and while we are parked at the stop in
Batavia, this young man gets out of his girlfriend's car to get on the bus. The
bus driver is having a smoke and I'm reading my book. I hear a bang and
look up. There is the little blue car and a sign post rattling and kind of lean-

s

Barbara-Helen Hill

ing over. He is really dancing up a storm and hootin' and hollerin' over there
near the car. That young girl was trying to drive out of the parking lot and
was watching her young man now sitting on the bus when she ran into the
(handicapped parking only sign). Now there was perfect example of"love is
blind."
Yep, I've come to see that He - Coyote travels far and wide. I'm looking around for him but he is no where to be seen. I think he is back in
Penticton because I faxed two stories to Theytus in May and apparently they
don't have them. He must have taken them and put them in the circular file
or on someone's desk. Well, I hope he stays there for a while, I'd like to hear
how he acts in someone else's territory.

Vera M. Wabegijig

two tricky guys
raven and coyote swinging around the clubs
at night, jigging away, swinging by cafes,
doing their dubs of poetry,
i pray they didn't change anything ...
like they usually do
but when they're together,
that raven and coyote ...
you never know.
raven and coyote up to their old tricks
on the west coast, boasting and toasting
clinking their glasses on new year's day.
i fear they're making plans for us humans
but, i am convinced there's gotta be a lesson
and teaching in all what they do
even if it's sure to be a mistake ...
which is it likely to be ...
i saw raven and coyote
one time at a pow wow
dancing with crow doing the hop
when coyote sneaks in a karate chop
with flips and dips, enticing crow
making her caw as she was freaking then falling
down at coyote's paw and he sure did blush
at the sight of crow's skirt up over her head
coyote said with a bow, i am honoured crow
but let's take it slow. you're just too fast for me!
and i think to myself, that sly coyote
so smooth, so slick, trying to trick crow ...
'cause we all know he's just too fast for any ofus!
cheers to raven and coyote
who make us laugh and listen
perk your ears to hear their stories,
and keep close to mother earth
but watch your back for those two tricky guys
in their furry suit and ties ... 'cause you never know
what is next with those freaky sneaks!

6

7

Sandra Lynn Lynxleg

Nanabush and the Mud Ducks
This is a story without an end. Every story about Nanabush is like this.
The stories connect like paths, roads, and highways. If you lay on a cloud
looking down you'd see earth etched with well travelled lines, each a meandering trail in a different direction. Each eventually guided to the other.
Nanabush stories are this-an extension of the last. Nanabush's life.
Nanabush's story.
The legend ofNanabush and the Mud Ducks is like this. It begins at the
end of one valley and the start of another. A valley of soft rolling hills and a
long meandering river. A valley populated by birch and bushes hidden in the
back country far from villages. Nanabush always came back this way from
the high country. Wild sweet berries, fresh big fish and young mud ducks
filled the valley with plenty to eat. His trip to the high country had been miserable. It had been so cold that his words froze when he spoke. It was a barren place where he had to eat his words, even the ones he didn't like. For the
trip home, Nanabush had shoved some words in his pockets. He thought
himself clever because he knew he'd reuse these words, so he wouldn't
repeat himself (which he was known to do). The frozen words weighed
heavy and tired him. The weight made his legs work hard which made his
stomach grumble for more fuel to keep walking. His stomach rumbled like
rolling thunder and the ice words clanked and collided like tiny light sparks.
Nanabush couldn't concentrate while he walked. The battles in his stomach
and pockets bothered him. Busy rubbing his stomach and patting his
pockets, he didn't see the tree root he tripped on. Ice words flew from his
pockets. Flew out and up. Each a whisper as it hit the air but soon the afternoon breeze and sun melted the frozen chunks of words. The clanking and
colliding in the pockets had chipped and cracked some words. Pieces of
Nanabush's northern chatter and babble bounced off nearby rocks, roots,
bark, and branches and took flight towards the sky.
Nanabush heard days of conversation battling for the same air time.
Each piece of gibberish rose in volume. "Ook a al te no. Balahh. Tweken
saw a rabble keek jon ree. Amazonitoid liquid etchem ook ook bandaball
sen sojourn hannal notchal. EEECH! EETCH! EEK! EEK!
Frantically running around, Nanabush scrambled to collect his jabbering voices, shoving what annoying words he caught in his mouth. Between
gulps and grabs, he yelled at them "Shhh!" But the words' volume
increased. The noise got so loud it woke the mud ducks sleeping on the river
8

Sandra Lynn Lynxleg

bank."What! What!" each cried as it rose to flight.
"What! What! What! What!" The leads circled in search. Nanabush
quickly ran to hide amongst the willow bushes. "Food," he thought.
"Succulent. Mud duck food. My favourite meal."
The ducks continued to search for the sounds. Flying into the heat of the
conversations, words bounced off their wings and backs hitting each other.
The leads noticed and warned the others, "Go! Go! Go! Go!"
Nanabush, fearing his meal would leave, jumped from behind the bush.
"Neeshtows, I hear your frantic quacking. What's wrong?"
"It's Nanabush! It's a trick! Go! Go! Go! Go!" squawked the leads.
The fluttering of the wings and the warmth of the afternoon sun had
lessened the volume of Nanabush 's many voices. Only dribblings of conversations could be heard. "Wait!" he cried to the fleeing ducks, "I can quiet
the voices and make them go away." With that he scooped up the last of the
falling words, which were reduced to burps and gurgles, and shoved them in
his mouth.
Licking his fingers and lips he said, "I came to this valley from the high
country. My friends up there said I would become filled with words and
song when I visited here. They spoke truth. I am so fulfilled and in awe of
this beautiful valley, I am speechless." With that he sat down on a nearby
log.
The ducks, still confused from the now silenced noise and sudden
appearance of Nanabush, cried, "It's a Nanabush trick! Go! Go! Go! Go!"
Nanabush continued to sit quietly on the log. Calmly he said, "I do not
want to frighten you, my friends. I only want to sit by the water and watch
you dip and swim. It's been a long time since I have been with friends."
"No! No! You lie. You want to eat us. We know you Nanabush. You are
always hungry."
"You misunderstand me. I have just eaten and I am no longer hungry.
Believe me, I want to be among friends. I miss my friends from the high
country. We would laugh and sing. We'd dance all day because there is no
night. Life in the high country is a party, and the people are hospitable. For
weeks we laughed, sang, danced, and ate. I am so full of food I will not eat
until next year. I wouldn't eat my high country friends; otherwise, when I
returned nobody would be there to greet me."
"He speaks truth," spoke one brave duck. "I've heard high country people live like that." His words were enough to calm the other ducks because
ducks believe each other. They believed this so much that they flew back to
the river bank to settle down.
9

Sandra Lynn Lynxleg

Nanabush smiled to himself and watched them. He began to sing. He
stood up and danced and sang. "Aiy. Aiy. Aiyawah. Aiyawah." He banged
dry broken branches to his beat and danced close to the river bank but away
from the ducks so as not to scare them again.
The ducks watched, both cautious and curious, as Nanabush singing and
dancing, raised his arms to the sun. Some moved in for a closer look while
others swam a little way out on the river to watch.
Nanabush called to them. "Join me. I will teach you a new version of the
friendship dance that I learned up north."
The braver ducks were eager to learn and came closer to Nanabush. The
others honked and squawked in protest.
"It's safe. Come dance with us. We'll party and celebrate this day
Nanabush refused to eat us," cheered the eager ducks.
"Don't be frightened. I will protect you from predators," said Nanabush
most charmingly.
Anxious to dance, the ducks quickly waddled to where Nanabush was
dancing. Each duck copied Nanabush's dance. Noticing, Nanabush said,
"Oh! My little friends, you are all dancing the same. Dance uniquely." This
was difficult to do, since ducks follow each other exactly. Nanabush kept
singing and dancing, encouraging the others to join. Finally, all the laughter
and gaiety persuaded the others to join.
Nanabush, thrilled his plan worked, cheered, "I am happy, my friends.
We are together. Now to learn the friendship dance! Close your eyes. You
must not look at each other. Your dance is to be unique. Remember all the
lands you travelled over. All the different animals and people you saw.
Remember what you saw in those lands. Remember the music. Put it in your
heart. Dance from there. And when you dance, SING. Sing loud. The louder the better. I want to hear the joy in your stamping and shouting. We are
new friends. Let's share in the joy of our friendship!"
His words made those ducks dance. They danced thunderously. They
danced differently. They danced with abandon. Those ducks danced, heads
held high, honking, flapping, smashing into each other, all laughing, but
never stopping. Nanabush anxiously watched. He followed behind the ducks
and imitated their dancing. Putting down his banging sticks, he sang louder.
"Sing. Dance. Keep the sun awake so it does not sleep tonight. Sing as
loud and as strange you can. Today is not a day to be a duck, it's a day to be
a dancer. Dance and I will choose the best!"
The dancing became wild and furious. Each duck trying to out do the
10

Sandra Lynn Lynxleg

other. Nanabush encouraged them more. Their rhythm became tumultuous.
Waves of honking and quacking. Some quacks were so strange and unusual
that one little duck wanted to do the same to win Nanabush's affection. She
waited until she heard another. Peeking to catch a glimpse, she saw
Nanabush grab a duck by its neck, crack it and throw it behind the log.
"Fly! Fly!" she shrieked. "Nanabush tricked us. He's cracking necks as
we dance foolishly! Go! Go!" The ducks opened their eyes and saw
Nanabush choking another one of their friends. They took flight in fear.
Nanabush threw down the duck and chased the squealer. "When I catch you,
I will tum your eyes as red as my anger."
Just as she was about to take flight, he stamped on her back, pinning her
down. The weight of his foot dented her back. Her legs pushed from underneath and became squeezed to her sides pointed backwards. She winced in
pam.
Nanabush didn't care that he had altered the look of the little duck,
which would affect all future mud ducks. He was too furious to care. He had
planned a meal of many but only had a few. Impatient to do the little duck
in he reached down to crack her neck. When Nanabush went to make the
q~ick jerk, she shifted and he got hold of his moccasin and yanked. Falling
backwards, he propelled the duck into the air.
Angry and disappointed his clever plan had backfired, Nanabush
watched the little wounded duck fly to freedom. "You are lucky, my friend.
Yes, very lucky."
Tired from the day's events, Nanabush went back to the log to clean his
catches. Off in the lazy afternoon horizon, Nanabush heard the din of bawling ducks. Too weary to care, he decided he'd eat after a sleep. Constructing
an outlandishly large fire, he curled up and nestled his butt close to the roaring flames. So close that this is the beginning of another story.

11

Sherida Crane

Sherida Crane

Napi jumps into the TV to visit "North of Sixty"
Last night Napi dropped by
climbed through my living room window
with a towel wrapped around his waist
water dripped off his body
as if he just had a shower
I was stretched out on my Indian design
love seat
watching North of Sixty
on my big screen TV
Napi came and sat on my legs
I said, "get off my legs Napi
you have a bony bum and I'm watching North of Sixty,"
Napi laughed at me
Napi pointed up
at the drywall ceiling
fat black and brown fury
spiders danced up there upside down
as Napi sang,
"Oh my little spiders
dance dance for this girl
dance til she can't see me
make love to her
Wa ha Wa ha ho!
I said, "Oh Holy grandfather
Oh Napi Old One
Get out of the way
I'm watching North of Sixty."
Again Napi pointed up at the furry spiders
and now they fell down on my pink rug
and spun themselves into snakes
12

snakes twisting slapping on my pink rug
as Napi sang,
"Oh my little children
spit your poison at this lady
So I can slither my tongue into her mouth!
Wa ha Wa ha ho!"
I said, "Oh Holy Grandfather
Oh Napi Old One
Get out of the way
I'm watching North of Sixty
you're bugging me Holy Grandfather,
this show only comes on once a week!"
Napi laughed at me
Get up off my legs and
pointed his index finger
towards the snakes twisting
slapping on my pink rug
and they were gone
Napi sat down beside me on my Indian design love seat
and watched North of Sixty
on my big screen TV with me
On 'North of Sixty' the bootlegger was
running for chief
I said, "Go on, Holy Grandfather you have many
wrinkles on your chest ... go and cover yourself up!
I'm trying to watch this show!"
Napi got up off my love seat
his face was red as fire
and he pointed his index finger
at my big screen TV and sang,
"Oh TV oh North of Sixty
help me to make this lady love me
13

Sherida Crane

Wa ha Wa ha ho!"
Then Napi crawled into my big screen TV
he was in North ofSixty's band-office
with the people electing a chief
Then all hell broke loose as Napi created chaos
The bootlegger won then
the TV camera was spinning low showing everyone's bum
lights flickered on and off in the band-office while
Napi jumped around on top of tables
then he grabbed Tina, the cop's gun!
Bang! Bang! the gun shot off into the air
as all the actors scrambled to pretend
with fear on their faces
Napi then farted in all their faces
From the background of the North of Sixty set
Napi blew me a kiss and said
"you I will never forget!"
as I jumped up from Indian design love seat
and turned off my TV set.

14

Feminist/Mother/Wo1nan

J.B.Joe

Poem of 29 Lines
Series• 01
went to a meeting the other night over
heard these found lines
you know someday i 'd like to be a type of stereo
i'm effin mad yeah sick and tired of taping by butts
to make one whole cigarette in the early
early morning so what that's not the worst
the worst yet is tying one on while the guy
ties up his arm with a piece of rubber
and that's not all you're laying
there legs apart ready
yeah well a guy's gotta do what he's gotta do right
what about the times i slept
naked on a cold sidewalk dreaming endlessly
of cold cuts penthouse roof tops balloons party hats
and dressed up balloons grinning from here
to maternity well
if it gets right down to it i 'd prefer
to be at a home game with my own my very own
band playing my song yeah yeah a song i wrote it
never ends there what we need is a bottle
of sperm containing enough for us to live
smatter cat for your tongue oh for effsake let's cut
the crap if we were at all serious
we would march right outta here join the marches down south
at the fruit stands no no no i 'm not gay
shut up your ignorant
mouth witch let's hold these pent up emotions in check
i hear there's a pretty good show at the odeon or somewhere
wanna go?

17

Susan M. Beaver

Linda George

when i'm not there

Daughter

sun lit spotlight
through the kitchen window
my sister's light brown skin
soap suds climbed up her arms
a thimble full of clouds
on her forehead
where she nudged
a strand of black hair from her eyes
i watched
as she gently
rubbed
my cup
in the steaming water

The fluttering instructor made her way about the room and chattered
and laughed and appeared to have other things on her mind.
The instructor-aid, feeling no responsibility, sat there and observed the
panels of the room with genuine interest.
The token white male came into the room and assumed it was his duty
to determine the ease and comfort of all. Some Mothers empower their male
children so.
Am I angry? Here we all are. None ofus want to be here. An education
system that is competitive, labeling and degrading is the reason we have
trekked here.
First, we need to design an education plan. Since my daughter has
reached the high school level and has been registered into a work orientation program rather than the regular program we need to decide the fitting
strategy. They followed my series of questions and queries with an adamant
statement of "I want her to WANT to come to school." Oh we party here,
yes, we do that. That is not what I meant! That was such a lame attempt at
closing the gap, reaching the teen, developing a bond. She did not even give
warning, just withdrew. What I mean is I want her to WANT to come to
school, I want her to want to learn.
Then my heart said: "Would you teach her that the reason some communication is so difficult is because we don't understand that we are all individuals? Would you tell her that understanding herself is so necessary before
she can understand others? Would you instill in her the drive for knowledge?
Would you explain that the horrible sound of the band practice from the
other parts of the school ground turns out to be beautiful music? Would you
give her appreciation for art and music? I don't know about that opera stuff.
Would you tell her how important she is to her family?"
When I did focus with my ears again, the words were still coming out
of the man at work. The end of the year they go on a week long camping trip
and they have a lot to do during the school year. Like a visit to the museum,
swimming, and the usual field trip hoop la. We have been out and about the
United States and Canada camping. My daughter is too young to enter the
Lifeguard Program and she did complete all requirements for this. All ready
it's all wrong, I can read her face. I realize that this is to improve social skills
and to develop other skills that are still unclear to me.
So, how is it we are here? Why can't we just have a twenty four hour
teacher? How can I help her with this? Why is this program still here? It is
so outdated. I should have stayed in school. Attention, direct looks and questions were so difficult for her to receive. She would not describe her likes

and told me the story
of seeing her sister for the first time
how her smile flowed
from her eyes
how she had no four year old words
she told me the story
of seeing her sister for the first time
how her smile flowed
from her eyes
because
she had no four year old words
to tell her mother
how much this sister
resembled
her picture of Creator
as my sister stands in the sunlight
streaming words and song and laughter
i catch them in my breath
press them in a book
deep in my chest
and when i can't see her
when i'm not there
when she's back home
i pull out this book
and flip through the sound of her voice
and the sunlight
streams
again

18

19

Kimberly Blaeser

Linda George

and dislikes. (I must tell her everyday how much I love her.) Why is her selfesteem so negative? I really shouldn't be such a domineering, mouthy,
know-it-all!
We, the parents, are having our patience tested, dignity removed,
unknowingly on her part, and dreams being cut and on the floor. It is
because I don't know how to do all of the above. Well, I do, but I am too
busy feeding my own ego and doing the daily survival. Somehow things are
out of kilter. I had this huge assumption that parental skills became easier.
The parental skills that I did have were of forced behaviour, not ever
explaining in detail the imposition of this. Anger was my favourite form of
talk. (One way.) I speak in the past tense because I have left that and am now
in a mode of search. You notice when I discuss parents, it has turned to "I."
The father of this scenario is present and is one of great importance to us all.
He does not speak with empathy... I thought my form was bad. His is too
cutting and blunt at the same time. Get it?
Back to my daughter who is beautiful inside and simply gorgeous outside, she can so easily fool you because she can dress to perfection. She can
create a masterpiece with her hair. It appears that all is well. The testing has
proven that she cannot read, therefore she can't spell, which also leads to
difficulty with comprehension. I believe that she has not come to harm
because she is so caring for others and always says so.
She posed this statement or question: Why do boys get to do whatever
they want and go out and be asked and told okay, but when she wants to go
out it becomes a court session and then a panic. It is not fair.
Now here is where I lose it. This one, the youngest of four, questions my
pompous authority. She challenges and scrutinizes me and is "dismayed" at
me. Marriage is not something for her and children are sweet. Nevertheless,
they are tiresome and too much of your own time is dedicated to them. I
hope that this is not the message that she receives from me! She laughingly
questions, how can you look at the same face everyday and do the same
things everyday and clean and cook and do laundry? For her, crowds are
preferable, seeing different people everyday and no housework. Lately, what
I should have said has become routine. Yet time still goes by and words are
left dangling, unsaid.
So, you see, we do need your help. We, meaning ALL of us. Most of all,
I want her to want to learn, to get over the trivial details, such as popularity.
I want her to make her own path.

20

Don't Burst the Bubble
Outside with his Daddy
he runs back
the soap solution in his hand
because he thinks I am the magic.
Only Mommy
can throw round rainbows in the air
cover the grass with glass bulbs
only Mommy
can tickle beauty from her lips
coax it through the wand
until it multiplies and rushes out
translucent
only Mommy
can blow bubbles
that tease his chase
floating fleeing
popping at his touch.
He thinks the magic is me.
Please don't tell him
it's really Fisher Price.

21

--Sharron Proulx-Turner

Untitled
at school they told her she was mad
is what the auntys say
it's true she was tired
so tired she starts with writing in her sleep
that was one cold spring that one
eyes open and opening her eyes
wider she can see now
over to the left and all in rows
of smiling faces
teachers drill and stuffing
in their eyes
they all hold sticks or pointers magic wands
high above their heads
and speak together one by one in unison
of pains inside their paunches
crooked lies
best summer she ever had that old lady
comes right on in there and yells out loud
french fries
french fries
french fries for sale
and all those smiling faces line up in a row
and out they walks into the cold
and in goes that old lady
and picks up all them magic wands
and uses them down at the train station
to tum princes into frogs
and then she has a feast of feasts
near the beginning of the frosts
over to the left and all in rows
of frogs legs in the thousands
dripping grease and keeping time
at school they told her she
was shooting herself in the foot
had a good aim that old lady specially as a girl
that was just before the telephones
the tree poles
heavy and dark against a clear blue sky
she's up there near the top of one of them poles

22

Sharron Proulx-Turner

and running on the wires
uses one of them magic wands from the school to keep her straight
in time
that was after she writes her lines
I will not shoot myself in the foot
I will not shoot myself in the foot
I will not shoot myself in the foot
I will not shoot myself in the foot
seven thousand hundred times
runs so fast along them wires she converts
to light
they hear to think she's lightening
water's what some of them say
rapid water
firey cold and voicing
like writing on the page
that's right about the same time she started to keep her writing
that same summer she puts that spoon in that crows nest
and all them crows fight over that spoon for years
until that raven comes over from the landfill sight
eyes the size of jackfish
is what the auntys say
eleven days in court and even them crows can't cut a deal
that blackrobed judge with lemon in his eyes
silver spoon potbellied right into his thighs
big-mouthed and drooling
talking history whitening out lies
the old lady gets it all down
word for word she knows that short hand in her head
word for word and this is what that blackrobed judge says
to them crows
make sure you ask for what it says here in the book
and there's only one answer and you can't peek and hey
good luck
time's up
next that's when them crows turn into hazelnuts
right there on the hardwood floor
and raven grabs that silver spoon
blackrobed judge and all
good thing the old lady gets it all down
before she heads out in her car

23

Sharron Proulx-Turner

and drives right up and over that landfill sight
eyes the size of jackfish
I am many things says the old lady
but I am no carpenter
I can yacht with the best of them
they say them folks in whitetown made a tv-type-movie script
just after the old lady dies in her sleep
at the tv-type-movie funeral there's a teacher from her school
who speaks from over to the left and all in rows and says
her favourite food was french fries and there's something about
her writing
lazy and arrogant
makes it like a rich french dessert
undeniably excellent
but affordable and familiar to few
the auntys laugh and laugh and eat popcorn with extra butter
clinging to their salt
them folks can't read worth beans
is what the auntys say
they got it right there on the kitchen table
all framed with the old lady smiling tight
her false teeth right there beside her in a cup
she makes that cup at the senior high
paints words on it too
uses the extra paint left over from her car
big red hen red
words are jewels is what she writes on that cup
words are jewels
grains of rice to kneel on depending on the view
and there she is with her hair just long enough to fit a sprig of
a tail
and hair pins all around
haphazard
gardening over by that landfill sight
and the sun
pats her on the back warms words out from her sprig of a tail
something about them kind of words like jawbreakers
too hard to bite and chew
just slow just suck so at the layers feel each one
circle after circle says the sun that hot round day
way back before the tv was even a pimple on a newborns butt
24

Sharron Proulx-Turner

they say that old lady used to spend lots of time
out from time and trailing waiting praying for a miracle
and out pops this big red hen
body the size of a car
one of them volkswagens
except with chicken scratches on the road
and in hops the old lady right there in the middle of the road
ties a scarf around her hair and gets behind the wheel
the whole time up front in the trunk of that car them eggs
whisper she is magic she is ready to return remember
she is magic she is ready to return
good shocks on that car burden of the past
then right there on the side of the road
mother superior blackrobed and frostbite on her nose
selling hail the size of golf balls
that big hen never could resist a good deal warm red wise
besides them hailstones got a piece of paper froze inside
tells the future tells no lies
that big red hen pecks the biggest ball the biggest slip of paper
takes them four days just to suck that water off
four more days to let that paper dry
and on that paper
something rare and precious so much loneliness born out of love
it is said that abuse by a mother is of the worst kind
and especially it is said that abuse of a mother toward her
daughter is the most damaging
and the old lady stops that car says oh
we need our past we need to remember
just look back feel smell breathe see them all
thank them for their medicines
thank them for their miracles
how to enjoy with the understanding of pain
the outpour of intimacy of love safe and warm and free to breathe
and underneath the seat of that car little people dulled and shy
belittled and afraid
alone
gone to church gone home
gone away
bye bye
every spring them crows show up right downtown in whitetown
each year there's more on account of the kids and grandkids

25

Sharron Proulx-Turner

them folks in whitetown can't tell them crows apart
can't understand crow talk either
they don't know them crows take care of their own
this is years after all them crows tum into hazelnuts
right there on the hardwood floor
and raven grabs that silver spoon
that's the year they call on the old lady to help them out
the year the giant butterfly shows up with them crows
it's just about late afternoon and picking up the sun
one of them dark brown butterflies with the yellow-winged tips
bright like the sun
and them crows all singing hollow doo doo I'm a butt
hollow doo hollow doo to revive us again
that's just before them crows all up and die
right there in downtown whitetown on the bar-strip drive
block off rush hour traffic for four hours
folks everywhere with cameras and camquarters and loonys
selling plastic crows on a stick each with a genuine hen feather
so in drives that old lady
and yells out
french fries
french fries
french fries for sale
and all those smiling faces line up in a row hup-two-three-four
hup-two-three-four and feeling like part of the group
and in drives that old lady and picks up all them crows
and drives them down to the bingo hall like they ask
I am many things says the old lady
but I am no driftwood
I can hobdaub with the best of them
at school they told her she was simple
well thinks that old lady I certainly haven't been keeping time
reflection in words and so much going on
fear of their fear
this is the same afternoon they think she dances for the class
gets so hot all them gophers running about outside
thinking it's full spring
kids all in the windows yelling hey look at all them gophers
that old lady must be dancing up there in eleventh grade
26

Sharron Proulx-Turner

understanding the dreams would help
and so she dances
dances right there on top of the teachers desk
on account of she needs the extra space
kids all in the windows see them crows
cold-dulled and scrawny
over on the telephone lines up for air or rapid water
firey cold and tossing a silver spoon
singing hold me hold me love me hush hold me hold me love me hush
sweet harmony and residues of something unnameable
waiting for that moment for the my the me of love
thought memories in print and bouncing off them wires
all crowy wavy lines outrageous
right through them windows and in to that old lady
by this time everyone even all them teachers line up in the halls
even the principal that girl's in a league all her own
and so she dances hurt angry threatened on guard left out
a receptacle for poison verbal poison voice is sacred spewing in
the air invisible erased
case history case closed
at school they told her she was a no-good slut
said she'd have a baby like all the rest of them squaw-girls
a system made to measure for the gang
prettify the language faking calm for flat bare hate
content to cruel and back again
that's the year it snowed right through the spring and into june
that's when she was twelve years old
ashamed of her fear
hides away shaking fetal lost in the view
breaking through the pain
starting at the back the way she looks at magazines
reads between the stories sees the lies
that's when she fills out one of them ads for manure delivery
bills it to the school
they say they flew in that manure all the way from texas
dumped it right there in front of the school
principal couldn't do a dam thing on account of the snow
blocked the view from the windows poop and snow poop and snow
sure smelled around that school and all the way over at them
badlands and deep deep in the pines
that's when all the ravens drop in for a while
27

--Marie Annharte Baker

Sharron Proulx-Turner

poop all over the windows of that school
poop all over that poop too
make so much noise caw cawing fart farting laugh laughing
sing singing dance dancing caw cawing
they bring in the swat team
slipping on that poop
look like mud wrestlers kids placing bets and selling cool-aid
from the road
then those cops they get that poop all in their pistols
clogs up their barrels kids cheering from the side of the road
then out of the blue in crawls all the babys in whitetown
brown themselves up pretty good
take those guns right out from under that swat teams noses
and throw them up up up and to the ravens all in rhythm all in
rhyme sing singing caw cawing out from time
out from time and trailing waiting praying for a miracle
and out pops that big red hen
body the size of a car
one of them volkswagens
buys some cool-aid from them kids poop scratches on the road
and in hops all the babys in whitetown
tie scarfs around their heads and fill up that that big red hen
open the sun roof open all the windows
on account of the smell
and then that big red hen creamy smooth soft kind
stops for that old lady
tears the size of jackfish
that's the part they get on the tv-type-movie script
the part where she that old lady those babys look down
and tum around profound it's not your life it's ours anyway
how would you like our life for your birthday or something

Squaw Guide
You Audience
Me Squaw
need to practice those lines
it's not the same as tarzan jane address
in the old movies
he yelled as he swung out holding his vine
dropped down to deliver commands
to Simba after bossing Cheetah all day
it's not exactly the same either
being called squaw
after going to a high school football game
coming home on a bus
this drunk white hosehead
yells out from the back of the bus
there's a squaw sitting up front
no not me - didn't look around - not me
because I grew semi-invisible
nobody noticed I was
the only invisible Indian
going to high school in the city
back in the fifties
unless there were lots even I didn't see
I needed the low self-esteem concept
to explain why nobody was on my side
why nobody told him I belonged
they were being good Canadians
nice he was racist & nice I was the squaw
it didn't make me act up like Jay Silverheels
as if I would speak up to joke
WHAT DO YOU MEAN
WEWHITEBOY
I wasn't Tonto or tough enough
to defer say kemosabe
you had to be tough
a popular INDIAN Jack Jacobs
football champion
aw fuck 'em if they can 't take a joke
would a stand up comic
a Dice Clay routine
In the north end or west end?
yeah it's possible to get laid

?o

28

29

Marie Annharte Baker

Marie Annharte Baker

if Winnipeg born
why not if Tarzan
makes Simba lie down when told
& Cheetah screams pointing to his butt
ok ok now no more drudge grudge
I'm taking women studies
& that's tough
because I don't have a closet
that's empty enough for me to get inside
think about it
I got too many skeletons
the closet is full
haven't counted yet
them bones dem bones
dem shy bones
like the typical squaw in the old days
I was the shy kind
my best friend used to laugh
holding fingers fanned out
hiding her whole self
the big mouth
because it was hard to be a big squaw
big public squaw
I was too invisible to laugh out loud
at the university I go every day
in my classes I transform
from text book squaw
who doesn't speak up
I usually do this
scary business when not supposed
to say anything contentious
silence is rewarded or reworded
everyone looks my way
to check if I am being quiet each day
I might abuse my feminisms
switch bitch from academic squaw
to academic sasquatch
as I speak squaws are past tense
used to be but nobody says that word much
hey but wait a minute
30

did you gaze at me funny
intend just a bit
to call me a squaw?
being a squaw is very demanding
in the movies or on a native production set
it is when a woman gets told
make me some tea
braid my hair
by a warrior no less
on the res the women say my chief what my chief says
his speech never mentions my squaws my papooses
now why is that
it's hard to be a political correct squaw
my secret: don't ever open mouth
or let yawn indicate how boring
better not say anymore about that one
but say the drunken squaw is most awesome blend
saw some young women doing some reverse
squaw baiting
they were sitting in a bus shelter
whenever a guy would go by
one of them would say
HEY HUN-NAY
then they would laugh
I should try that stunt
TANSI HUN-NAY
get my voice all husky
BOO JOO HUN-NAY
at the next pow wow in South Dakota
I would say in breathy tone
WASHTE HUN-NAY
maybe feminism makes me too shy
to joke around much
the women now talk about outing
wonder out where?
out in the bush?
probably out of my mind
like I said
my closet is all junk
I'm serious
know all that stuff
inside the me
31

Barbara-Helen Hill

·,

Memories Two
Your voice is deep as you share
your pain, my eyes fill with
tears as you pour your thoughts
on the table and you sense I'm there
your pain of being a child in an
alcoholic's home; -hurt at having
parents with no ears to hear your joy
or hold you in your sorrow
your deepest thoughts are shared
quietly you speak I hold my breath
afraid I'll hear the truth
I listen, I hear, I wait
when all is quiet you sip your drink
your eyes start to dance and your mind
begins its playful journey
we jump to your defense when you start
your quiet reverie not knowing what is
about to come from your polished actors
voice and suddenly we hear your words
"Yep, I been ugly all my life.
First I was fat and had a big nose.
Then puberty hit I started to thin out
but I got pimples. Then the pimples started to go
but now I've got wrinkles and I'm starting to go bald.
When that stops I'll be dead
but I'll make a great looking corpse."
your sister with her golden smile
looks on in wonderment giggles erupt
I watch with pride at my bear cubs
as they tumble and roll in words
through laughter and tears and love
we share our short time together
topics change and serious conversation
erupts in giggles as time marches on
Well you can imagine everyone in the restaurant staringguess they never heard laughter before or they'd never heard it so loud and so
free. Of course I asked if I could use his lines, being a writer
and all, and he of course said no. I wrote them down anyway.
"We could probably share" I said.
He smiled real hard and reached over and held my hand.

32

Song

Kimberly Blaeser

Students of Scat
Pellets bumpy
like mulberries,
peanut-shaped
porcupine droppings,
black winding
braids of mink.
SCAT!
Some droppings
say exactly that.
Territorial animals
marking their range.
Leavings
on fallen logs
atop rocks, at tree base.
Following the pathways
looking for sign
seeking stories in scat.
Abundant brown marbles
number the waboose.
Bunches of bullets
say deer use this meadow.
Scat like good gossip
whispers your whereabouts.
Straining to hear,
breaking apart,
dissecting like sentences
these symbols of your presence.
Fat berried sausages
write coyote's menu-du-jour,
Bee's wings, fur.
Tiny bones of mice
label skunk's dark passing.

35

Kimberly Blaeser

Kimberly Blaeser

Tracing each passage,
learning your patterns.
Finding where badger burrows,
or raccoon fishes.
Who climbs the apple tree
and who's eating who.
Nature's census takers:
she with her nose
I with my eyes
my dog and I
devoted students of scat.

36

Are you sure Hank done it this way?
(for Craig Womack and all the C & W Ind'ns out there)

Plucking old country songs
on a borrowed guitar
with a broken e-string.
Rusty thirtysomething voices
whining wailing
toward midnightYou 'fl cry and cry
the whole night through.
Riding glottal stops
and grace notes,
Flying your musical time machine,
Remembering
everything
but the lyrics.
Sounding
Singing ourselves
out of that room
on word chants
words like ancient rituals
we longed for
just out of our reach
like youthWhy don't you love me like you used to do?
How come you treat me like a worn out shoe?
Making music like some things matter
still
Bending those strings those notes
into shapes
we almost recognize.
Sparking chords
that glow like animal eyes,
Voices burning fast patterns
like sparklers
~ounds exploding fireworks
mto the smoky darkness
of long gone bayou memories-Please release me
Let me boo
For I don 't love you
37

Kimberly Blaeser

Anymore.
Linked like quarter notes
hands on one another's shoulders
Swaying
paper dolls strung out
on laughter.
Holding tunes like reins
steering ourselves
clear
through 500 years of historyPoor old Kawliga
He don't know what he missed.
Conjuring off-key harmony
feet tapping
fingers snapping
beating time like owl's wings
on moist night air,
who-whooing our own call.
Last lonely laments
criss-crossing voices
camping out on the edge of everything known.
Nowaday quests.
Songs.
surfacing around us like faces
ancient enemies swooping like hawks
crayon colored fantasy friends of childhood
old wrinkled grandmas
and bolo-clad granduncles,
Gathering together
drawing us into their spinning visions
centering us finally
in vibrating sound
an arrow
off taut bowstring
shot straight at the heartEight days on the road
and I'm gonna make it home tonight.

38

Dark Humor

-

r
Mickie Poirier

Pass it On
The future of this planet is dear to my native heart
And in my nature's simple way I want to do my part.
So, when I leave this body to roam the firmament
I'd like to know you did as though this was my testament:
Recycle all you can:
The burned can have my skin;
The ill can have the organs
That are contained within;
The student doctors can take what
They need to learn their trade;
The rest, just bury in a box
That will bio-degrade.
Thank you.

41

J.B. Joe

Poem of 29 Lines
Series 1
we must simply remember a few blue rocks like to stop rain
even if it kills us
all bastardos cry in their empty dimestore meals at one time
or another lest we forget
raps bullying one another on the left side of a detailed
picture of castro reclining looks like he dropped in to view
the loaded machine gun rather i would like to see more richer
red right here see are you sure you know what you 're doing i still
wonder what she meant by that only it doesn't bother me as much as
placing that final bet
prancing horses slugging a split second behind
blue sapphire rock glistens pausing to take a picture with
a brand new 35 mm gosh it's fun out here in the flat plain
too bad it doesn't last malone hey baby get off my back
what pains i take it doesn't matter at this place
moses tried his one-line speech again women let us rise
for old time's sake way down south where spotted eagle
flies wings grazing my truck as it sits thinking
one thin sucking dime would sure make a difference sometimes
i think pausing to take a shot is everything like an ass
that continues to graze while the flash sears him to the spot
forever caught in his own time
fettered by these meticulously drawn out lines i pause
myself unable to quite escape
fire burning across my back at an uncertain speed governed
by laws unknown
get a grip for chrissake it isn't every day we have the time
for riddles paradoxes and stupid guilt trips is it
speak for yourself whispers my truck

42

'
Identity

Jack D. Forbes

Only Approved Indians can Play
Made in USA
The All-Indian Basketball Tournament was in its second-day.
Excitement was pretty high, because a lot of the teams were very good, or
at least eager and hungry to win. Quite a few people had come out to watch,
mostly Indians. Many were relatives or friends of the players. A lot of people were betting money and tension was pretty great.
A team from the Tucson Inter-Tribal House was set to play against a
group from the Great Lakes region. The Tucson players were mostly very
dark young men, with long black hair. A few had little goatee beards or mustaches, though, and one of the Great Lakes fans had started a rumour that
they were really Chicanos. This was a big issue since the Indian Sports
League had a rule that all players had to be of one-quarter or more Indian
blood and that they had to have their BIA roll numbers available if challenged.
And so a big argument started. One of the biggest, darkest Indians on
the Tucson team had been singled out as a Chicano, and the crowd wanted
him thrown out. The Great Lakes players, most of whom were pretty light,
refused to start. They all had their BIA identification cards, encased in
plastic. This proved that they were all real Indians, even a blonde-haired
guy. He was really only about one-sixteenth but the BIA rolls had been
changed for his tribe, so legally he was one-fourth. There was no question
about the Great Lakes team. They were all land-based, federally-recognized
Indians (although living in a big midwestern city) and they had their cards
to prove it.
Anyway, the big, dark Tucson Indian turned out to be a Papago. He
didn't have a BIA card but he could talk Papago so they let him alone for
the time being. Then they turned towards a lean, very Indian-looking guy,
who had a pretty big goatee. He seemed to have a Spanish accent, so they
demanded to see his card.
Well, he didn't have one either. He said he was a full-blood Tarahumara
Indian and he could also speak his language. None of the Great Lakes
Indians could talk their languages so they said that was no proof of anything,
that you had to have a BIA roll number.
The Tarahumara man was getting pretty angry by then. He said his
father and uncle had been killed by the whites in Mexico and that he did not
expect to be treated with prejudice by other Indians.
45

Jack D. Forbes

But all that did no good. Someone demanded to know if he had a reservation and if his tribe was recognized. He replied that his people lived high
up in the mountains and that they were still resisting the Mexicanos, that the
government was trying to steal their land.
"What state do your people live in?" they wanted to know. When he said
that his people lived free, outside of the control of any state, they only shook
their fists at him. "You're not an official Indian. All official Indians are
under the whiteman's rule now. We all have a number given to us, to show
that we are recognized."
Well it all came to an end when someone shouted that "Tarahumaras
don't exist. They're not listed in the BIA dictionary." Another fan yelled
"He's a Mexican. He can't play. This tournament is only for Indians."
The officials of the tournament had been huddling together. One blew a
whistle, and an announcement was made: "The Tucson team is disqualified.
One of its members is a Yaqui. One is a Tarahumara. The rest are Papagos.
None of them have BIA enrollment cards. They are not Indians within the
meaning of the laws of the government of the United States. The Great
Lakes team is declared the winner by default."
A tremendous roar of applause swept through the stands. A white BIA
official wiped the tears from his eyes and said to a companion: "God Bless
America. I think we've won."

Sarah D. Lyons

Swing Your Ta Ta 'Round and 'Round
when I was a little girl
I stood at my grandpa's knee
watched him play his solitaire
touch his cards you didn't dare
put the red six on the black seven!
at one elbow he had his Scotch
had it early and on the rocks
sat the other elbow-his tally sheet
his running score was always neat
my gramps was a CPA/or the IRS
and just wait till you hear the rest!
keeping score of who was ahead
trying to beat the dealer in his head
he said something right out of the blue
now I'm gonna tell it to you
had a casino right there in his head!
before I do, one thing to know
my grandpa was a Pueblo man
first one in his big ole family
to leave the reservation for white man's land
no-he wasn 't no white man
first one to leave!
so on this day he said to me
Dolorita look-here-see
got a question little friend
are you part Indian?

46

47

'
I

Sarah D. Lyons

well I knew just what to do
tell him 'grandpa-I'm with you!'
so I gave him one of these [nodding]
slow and steady as you please
then my gramps did something strange
and since that day I'm not the same
set down his game said honeydew...
lets you and me think this through

Sarah D. Lyons

because the white men have no heart
so don't give them that, stay close to me
forever in our history

you can play that red jack now
put up that ace like that OK
what is underneath that three?
oh look there - just what we need!

set down his cards and left his game
and up to me my grandpa came
said if it's true my little friend
that you are part Indian
tell me now and tell me true
tell me which part is you
then he took up my skinny arm
and in his eyes see there was no harm
he made his hand just like a saw
and on my shoulder worked grandpa
he asked me again and again
to tell him which part was Indian
while he slowly sawed at arms and neck

pretty soon I said what the heck!
yes on that day with old grandpa
we chopped me up with his fake saw
and I stood there still as a big-eyed doe
stood there with skin white as snow
well he went back to his card game
and since that day I'm not the same
sat down and said sweet honeydew
remember this day 'cause they'll say to you
you ain't Indian and you ain't part
48

49

Mickie Poirier

Crystal Lee Clark

Quail Trail

That Sounded Like This?

Tum dip Drag Dip Tum-ta-tum-tum
They come like no-see-urns
Twenty bucks at the gate for the guided
Tour on the tourist trap lines,

This old wrinkley faced native guy
wearing a old style polyester track suit
said something to me
as me and her were
walking by him
the other day
that sounded like this;
"ASUHM"

A spiral wall of high front rises
Erasing the ancient roads and ways.
First the mock case in telegraph station:
They closed the Wet Dream Catcher Drive-In
Adult videos and Artifacts Store for
Too much demonstration. But,
You can still place your bets at the
Moccasino, where Top-Less Woman will take
Your order for the Three Sisters Bar & Grill.
Tum Dip Drag Flap Flap Tum-tum
Get your hair done and face painted at the
Four Grandmothers Beauty Salon.
Next Door at Vision Quest Opticians
the glass cases come in four colours,
with a feather matching ...
Red Turtle Tanning, Skins & Hides,
Got a process makes rayon like buckskin,
cotton like doehide, white skin deep copper red
(for a while), GO NATIVE! GO NEW AGE NATIVE!
Tum tum drag dip flap flap dip
Get your ticket at the Pan-Indian Headgear and Hardware Store
Then Trickster Taxi, yessir, will drive you 'round to the
Four Winds Sailing Club, above or below the dam's up to you.
Whatever you rode in here will be waiting for you at the
Take-out chicken place, near the Broken Wing Cafe where you can
Buy feathers to tie on your car so the boys on the path at the
Exit gate will know you're just passing through and they'll let you
Go, on your far away.

"huh" i thought outloud "what is this guy saying"
he was pointing at me while nudging his head side ways "ASUHM"
he had a huge toothless grin "ASUHM"
my face started turning redder,
I asked her (my friend Kendell) what this indian guy was trying to
tell me.
"ah, ASTUM, that means come here in Cree, I thought you were Cree,
don't you know nothing?"
"ah, shut it told you i'm struggling to find my identity where I fit
in this world as a half breed"
"you and your identity fixation, just talk to the guy"
so i approached this pointing toothless laughing native man
and he said"
"AWESOME OUTFIT SISTER!"
*pronunciation - ass (as in ass) - um (sounds like yum)
*pronunciation - ass (as in ass) tum (as in turns - you know the cheap
way to get your calcium)

Tum Tum Tum Tum hey hey hey

50

51

Barb Frazer

Anna M. Sewell

Looking for the injuns

Untitled

This time
I stayed in a fancy hotel
charged it to the company account.
Not one of those itchy places.

I'm gonna throw a party. Yessiree. For i have $.85 burning a hole in my
pocket and last night i had a vision. A vision, i tell you. Of closets.

Wake up call.
Breakfast by the pool.
Check out time.
An old frenchman with a ten gallon hat
walked in, both of us waiting
at the front desk.
He was lost
looking for the museum.
I decided it's time
to overcome my thing
against these people.
I will help this lost man.
I gave him directions
pointed to a bridge leading to the old fort.
He smiles and says
"Is that where all those
injuns are lined up?"

Silence.
I turned my back
abruptly dropped off the key
then marched out of the lobby.
Backing out of the parking lot
I see him in my rear view mirror
hands flying in the air telling his story.
Then it hit me, he meant
the old steam engines lined up along the road.

52

See, i just learned a beautiful song by a ... er, 'liberal'? ... no,'lebanese'? ... no,
no, 'las lobos fan'? ... a folk singer anyways, named Catie Curtis. It's called
'radical' and it addresses the struggle of anyone who just wants to love
somebody, but finds themselves embroiled, at every tum, in societal expectations that one either keeps it in the closet, or every act becomes a political
statement.
As a heterosexual, i felt a little odd about loving this song at first. Was it
appropriate, or was it appropriation, i asked myself, for a straight gal to sing
this? I went to bed last night with this question. In the dark air swirling
above my bed, i saw the first door, the first closet, and then there were more.
Now this first wave of the vision is nothing others haven't seen before, i 'm
sure. It was just that i saw how our world is full of closets. So, in the wake
of this vision, i sprawled in my bed, unconsciously adopting the posture of
my teddy bear.
I have to pause in the transmission of this vision in order to admit to his
presence, since this is about closets, and things we hide in shame, and i am
a grown woman and i 've travelled in far lands, survived earthquakes, faced
down muggers and psychos, and i have a teddy bear. There. I feel liberated.
So anyway, there we sprawled, Flower and me, and i counted closets. Well,
there's the classic gay closet. Then there's my friend who cross-dresses. If
he secretly wears jeans and t-shirts, would that be a 'clothes closet?'
Then there's witches, who have largely survived, since the Spanish
Inquisition, in the 'broom closet.' Only now are they coming out, as responsible Europeans seeking to revive their Earth-based spiritual traditions.
And how about all those Metis who grew up in the white (usually 'french')
closet? Given my hair and skin colour, i 've always got that option, to open
that door and put the 'indian in the cupboard.' Actually, i guess that might
be called a 'hannock closet.'
53

Anna M. Sewell

Anna M. Sewell

Then there's those ofus who pass for full-blood and are encouraged to closet our white heritage, in order to be taken seriously in certain born-again
indian circles. The 'columbus closet?'
At this point, the second wave of vision hit. (I hasten to add that I had been
ingesting only macaroni and coffee. Remind me that there is serious inquiry
to be made, at some point, into poor diet, mild allergy and susceptibility to
spiritual insight.) Anyhow, this is what i saw.
Things got weirder. I saw Jehovah's Witnesses, getting a retro-active abortion on their born-again status, and taking their new earth-based spirituality
into a closet marked 'jehovah's witness protection plan.' I saw neo-fascist
Native Traditionalists in closets, eating chinese food and listening to old
Abba songs.
I saw hard-core alcoholics, fast-food addicts and junkies furtively slinking
into fresh-smelling closets marked 'balance.' I saw millionaires in the 'rummage sale' closet. 'That's not funny,' i said-as if the other scenes had been
strictly hoohaw, but they were scooping all the best out-of-style polyester.

celebrating the absurd mystery of our lives.
And i saw Poverty, Disenfranchisement ('Frank,' they called him) and
Powerlessness, shuffling about in secondhand bodies, and loitering in front
of a closet whose sign they didn't even try to read. Judgement might have
come and started something with them, but she was too busy sealing up the
edges of the closet marked 'All My Relations.'
It went on for a while more, this vision, but you get the gist of it, right? And
you see why i'm moved to throw a party? The way i see it, reflecting on the
meaning of this vision, all those closets must be bigger than they look. And
i'm willing to bet they've got back doors; or more likely, given the zany
nature of the world, secret passages and revolving walls. Anyhow, let's all
pick a closet, dive in and meet on the otherside. Who knows who we'll be
when we meet? Wear what you like, come as you aren't, i'll be the one holding the bingo dauber and whistling a (gasp) country song. Oh yeah, it's
BYO(t)B- bring yer own teddybear.

Things got serious.
I saw the 'development closet.' In it were the lively minds and deep spirits
of 'lower class' people of every nation, who are expected 'pass for dumb,'
or at least inarticulate. Andi saw the 'love closet.' In it were heaps of hearts:
a pile for the cool who scoff at emotion; a pile for soldiers, which were
squashed beneath the pile for generals; a pile, squelching a lonely squelch
to themselves, for bureaucrats and politicians; a shattered pile which once
belonged to the monstrous. All of these piles had room for more.
I was getting scared. Everywhere i looked, there were doors. Closets.
Everything sacred had a closet waiting for it.
As did the profane. Polyester pants hid closets full of real, affordable clothing for all. Boxes of name-brand macaroni and 'cheese' hovered sheepishly
in front of a scrubbed-cotton farmhouse curtain covering a pantry/closet full
of wholesome, affordable food. Televisions, steered by ghostly 'studio audiences,' scuttled furtively toward closets out of which came the joyful sounds
of live stories, songs and dances in which everyone present participated in
54

55

Anna M. Sewell & Crystal Lee Clark

Discovering the Inner Indian
It's been hundreds of years now since we started importing Europeans here
to Turtle Island. Despite various programs aimed at maintaining genetic
purity, crossbreeding has been inevitable from the start. The odd thing is,
somehow, some people have grown up ignorant of their Turtle Islander
bloodlines and inheritance. You wouldn't think it was possible, but it is.
Today, many seemingly 'white' people wander in a wilderness of confusion,
unaware of the identity of that strange thing inside, that part of them that
rears up from time to time in the course of their lives, causing inexplicable
behaviours and reactions - as if they are host to some colonizing agent. If
this dilemma sounds familiar, this little questionnaire is for you. Gentle
reader, be you the scion of wealthy New England Republicans, be you the
uneasy heir to generations of Victorian Royalists, be you an Aryan posterchild marked only by a strange propensity to tan easily, whomever you are,
if you can answer yes to these simple questions, you may be the lucky owner
of an Inner Indian.
1. When square dancing, do you compulsively round off the comers?
2. In a deli full of fancy prepared meats, does the bologna speak to you? By
name?
3. Do you tend to start formal speeches, addresses and presentations with
"So anyhow... ?"
4. Have you compulsively shouted 'Bingo!' in any of the following situations: at a football game when the quarterback is calling a play, during
Hamlet, when the actor asks '2B or not 2B'; during the countdown to launch
a space mission?*
5. Do you talk to trees? Do trees talk to you?
6. Do you possess an uncanny ability to tell time by the sun, and get irritated by the great mass of associates who always want to start a half-hour
early?
7. Are you incredibly good-looking?
8. Do you see right through all that car-manufacturers' propaganda about
'seats five comfortably?'
9. When asked how many people are in your family, do you answer 'it
depends.'
10. Are you seized by the urge to blockade, even in unlikely situations - at
McDonald's, in public washrooms, etc.?
11. Do you instinctively hate the song "White Christmas"?**
56

Anna M. Sewell & Crystal Lee Clark

12. Do you take natural phenomena - passing birds, thunderstorms, roadkilled chipmunks, and so on - personally?
13. Do you have super-strong lips and/or chin, and the ability to give directions with your hands full? * This actually happened to one of the founders
of our Institute, who was a highly-paid NASA official until his Inner Indian
spoke up and freed him from that commitment, giving him both the
inspiration and the time to help us begin our work. ** This symptom alone
might also point to an Inner African, Inner Asian, etc. So anyhow, gentle
reader, if you have answered yes to a significant number (say four, for example) of these questions, do not hesitate to contact us here at the Institute for
Newly Discovering the Inner Aboriginal Now (INDIAN). Operators are
standing by with details of our affordable Inner Indian Seminar packages. It
costs so little to join the tribe, and if you act now, we '11 reduce the price of
our exclusive workshop meal plan, featuring your choice from our delectable menu: bannock and lard, macaroni, or fried bologna sandwiches. To
discover your Inner Indian, just pick up your phone and dial 1-900WANNABE. Make your reservation today.
By Doctor A.M. Sees Well (With Glasses Anyhow) and Dr. Little Pointy New-Age
Rock Clark (Crystal Lee "Looks Like Ice" Clark and Anna "Banana" Marie Sewell)

57

William George

Of The Sphere of Politics
politics yes
indians at play
sung true

true indians? or true politics? take your pick.

Home

58

Marie Annharte Baker

ROAD SIGNS POEM
INDIAN BLOCK.AGE AHEAD -- SLOW DOWN OR ELSE
IGNORE WHITE MAN ROAD SIGN
YOU ARE IN INDIAN COUNTRY
STAR TRUCK
THE NEXT GENERATION
APPROACHING
BINGO PALACE AND CASINO
SPEED DOWN
WHITE WOMEN AHEAD
KEEP BEHIND
CAUTION
CIA/CSIS SURVEILLANCE ZONE
FLYING DUST RESERVE
COME TO A COMPLETE STOP
THROW OUT ANCHOR
COYOTE CROSSING
KEEPYOUREYESONTHEROAD
POT HOLE NEXT
POT HOLE AGAIN
KEEP RIGHT JESUIT ROAST
MOHAWK SPECIAL
INDIAN SUMMER POTLUCK

61

Bill Cohen

Marie Annharte Baker

FIRST NATIONS MEN AT WORK
FOREST FIRE AGAIN
INDIAN RESERATTI MECHANIC
FIRST DRIVE BY
PASSING LANE
AS IF
WARNING DON'T PICK UP STRANGERS
YOU MIGHT BE RELATED
ROAD TO NOWHERE
JUST FOLLOW IT
YOU'LL SEE
YOU ARE NOW LEAVING REZ
MAYBE THE REZ BE WITH YOU

62

A Ball Story
Related to Some of Us by an Elder Okanagan
Cowboy Story Teller
In the Traditional Way
Do you know
when the first Indians started
to play ball? They wanted
to make themselves a baseball team,
but they didn't have the equipment,
and they didn't know the rules,
so they went and asked the Indian Agent
about it. The Indian Agent said,
"You boys need bases,
bats, gloves, uniforms, and balls."
The Indians replied, "Yeah,
we do need all that stuff."
So the Indian Agent made them
a purchase order
they could take to town
and get all the stuff they wanted.
The Indians were happy,
and the Indian Agent smiled.
They now had something to do;
they wouldn't be causing him trouble.
A little competition would be good for them.
The next day the Agent heard
the Indians were matched against the town team.
He decided he'd better go check them
out. When he got to the ball park,
the Indians were out in the field.
They looked good in their new uniforms.
The coyote caricature on their chests, however
looked like a reservation dog to some.
The Indian's coach was standing in their dugout.
The Indian Agent asked him, "How
are the boys doing?"
The coach grinned proudly and said,
"We're doing damned good."
"Oh! What's the score?" the Indian Agent
asked. "27 Nothing ...
but wait'll we get up to bat."
63

Kimberly Blaeser

Twelve Steps to Ward Off Homesickness
I.
Eat oatmeal and bacon for breakfast. Fry eggs in bacon grease and eat over
cold oatmeal for lunch. Make macaroni and canned tomatoes for supper.
Repeat for 5 days.

Kimberly Blaeser

IX.
Take your morning vitamin with warm, flat beer-3.2 if you can get it. Follow
with yesterday's coffee heated over. Repeat daily until the urge to drive
across three states disappears.

X.
Call home to find out how all the relatives are getting along.

II.
Scatter machine parts around your lawn. Volunteer to let a friend park his
old beater up on blocks in your yard.
III.
Check four dogs out of the pound for the weekend. Let them all run loose.
Then try to jog to take long walks.

XI.

Recite the names of all the suicided Indians.

XII.
If all else fails, move back.

IV.
Look in the mirror and say "Damn Indian" until you get it right. Stop only
when you remember the voice of every law officer that ever chanted those
words.
V.
Light cigarettes and place them in ashtrays throughout your house. Inhale.
VI.
Enter your car through the passenger door. Drive it without using reverse.
Continue for one week or until you remember a rez car is not a picturesque
metaphor.

VII.
Read the police report in your hometown paper. Read the letters to the editor in your tribal paper. Read the minutes from the last RBC meeting. Read
the propaganda from each candidate in the tribal election. List every area of
disagreement and try to decide who is telling the truth.
VIII.
In summer, tum off the AC and open the windows to let in the flies and
mosquitos.

64

65

Stephen Pranteau

Sabrina Whane

BINGO!

The Hunting Party

There was this lady from Yellowknife. She always played bingo and cards.
She was never at home. Right after bingo, she would go to the card games.
One Sunday morning, she decided to go to church. She hadn't slept all
weekend. She thought, "I should go to church and pray to God that I would
win bingo one day." She was in church and she fell asleep. When the priest
spoke loudly, the lady jumped up and shouted out, "BINGO"! Then all the
people started laughing at her and she walked out. Since then, she has never
gambled again.

"The two of us, cousins digging seneca root late in the season, decided
that the search for the medicinal plant will have to cease. It was simpler in
the beginning because there had been plenty of fruits, berries and all the
roots we could tum over from the earth." Jay was reminiscing with his
cousin Norman on the open porch of his cabin. They were watching the construction crew build a road. "I thought I was goin' to lose my foot that time."
"It was a miracle we found you when we did." Norman was laughing to
himself and he grinned over at Jay as they laughed.
'Norman had lost his land and served time in jail for his audacity at trying to stop the razing of his home,' thought Jay as he looked at his cousin
with fond eyes, 'But still, he's willing to joke and laugh.' "We came so near
death that for a long time we could not talk about events that day." They
were going to tell the story to his and Norman's grandchildren. Some of
them were in Jay's small kitchen with his wife, Helen, getting some lemonade and cookies.
As they entered, the young people sat down and encouraged the old men
to talk about their hunting party.
Jay took a sip of his lemonade, puckered his lips, peered at the yellow
water, set it back on the tray and launched into his story.
We were out in the wilderness. It was a hot summer. The earth grew hard
from the sun and lack of rain. The short stubby trees afforded little protection. The berries dried on their branches.
Jay, the younger of the two, decides to take a break and go hunting
because he wants meat in his diet.
"Hunting is getting really tough around here," mourns a hungry Jay.
He's in his early twenties, powerful in stature. His hands are the size of
beaver tails and they are almost as dark. As he yanks the head off the chicken, his ebony sun-tanned face twists sharply in one direction; as he peels the
skin and feathers, in another. He eviscerates the bird, then dips the carcass
in lake water. "Did you see how long it took to get this bird?"
Norman, his cousin, watching him prepare the bird, says to him, "Game
must have moved on when we got her. I can't locate anymore of that root
either and we 're down to the last bit of our coffee. There's tea left. We '11
drink that tonight and save the coffee for tomorrow morning."
"Sounds good to me," Jay nods in agreement. "All our supplies are running low."

66

67

Stephen Pranteau

"It's settled then," says Norman. He leans back against the stump to
close his eyes and rubs his knotted forehead, "It's hard work getting up at
the stroke of dawn, walking for miles, and digging with a pickaxe everyday.
Especially when we can only get about fifty pounds of this uncured stuff.
How much do we get, $5.50 or $6.00 cured and dried. The green stuff they
give us what? $1.00 a pound. I don't like that; why can't they dry it themselves? After supper we'll start packing our gear so that we can leave early
in the morning."
"I wish we could get $6.00 a pound, I'm afraid it's much less. Don't ask
me, our travellers passing through the other day mentioned the money.
It's too bad we couldn't get a moose or even a deer for all the time we've
spent here. How far is it from home anyway?
We've moved camp so many times that I can't remember how far we
have actually gone." Jay shakes his head at the thought of the miles they
paddled and trudged over various levels of terrain in the dusty wilderness.
"Most of our seneca root is dry. That's one good thing about being out
here, so in a few days all our stuff can go to the store. I'm afraid things are
not over yet, I figure we should use the better part of two days to get home.
That's two days of steady paddling. It's not going to be fun." Norman was
thinking ahead, picking out the camping spots during the two days they
would be working their way home. He contemplates how the river was
around a bend and could not be seen from camp. They have to paddle
through two lakes and one tough portage to reach the settlement. Crossing
the lake to the settlement was three hours of concentrated work.
Everything is still; the evening is coming in fast as day birds make a last
run over the lake.
Norman sees a ripple that a water bug makes near the shoreline and
watches until another insect's movements cancel them. The land and air
missiles begin to stir. He yells over to Jay, "Hey, when is that food going to
be ready? The mosquito brigade has arrived. I think this is the advance
party."
Jay returns, "Kill them all, that way they can't tell the others where
there's good eating. You'll have them and all their relatives. Once that happens there is no stopping them." Turning his attention to his cooking,
because, the grouse, carrots, potatoes, and dry onions are almost done, he
adds flour and pronounces the mass ready for consumption.
Norman tries his cousin's stew. "I've tasted better, but it seems like such
a long time ago. We ran out of salt a couple of days ago; it's pretty hard to
68

Stephen Pranteau

make a decent stew without salt." The rest of the meal is eaten in silence
except for slapping exposed skin to beat off the flesh and blood eaters.
"I suppose there is no point in crying the blues about any of the things
that could have gone right and the things that didn't. It's just our luck that
we couldn't find a big stash of the root but I think there should be enough
to pay for our time and buy a few things when we get back."
Norman, ever the optimist, leans back after swallowing the last of the
bland stew.
"We should do some packing before it gets totally dark." Jay squints
into the growing darkness and now that he is thinking of leaving, the countryside seems downright unfriendly. Seeing yellow eyes glare at him from
the darkened tree trunks sends him into shivers.
"Most of the food containers can be packed. All we need is the coffee
pot and maybe the frying pan. Our tools and things can be tied up in bundles and ready to load in the morning. You can bundle your bedding if you
want."
"I think I'll keep my bedding out, if you don't bald-headed mind."
retorts Jay.
"Just a suggestion," laughs Norman.
Between sips of dark tea that have the smell of woodsmoke, Jay's large
hands pack his equipment. He savours his drink, "The only drawback about
tea drinking is that the stuff leaves an unpleasant coating on my teeth.
Maybe I shouldn't boil the damn tea ... Nah, it probably wouldn't make a difference."
He throws the bundles of tools beside the tent as he jumps into the tent
and closes the flap. He can hear the bugs as they hit the canvas wall. Jay
cuffs the side of the tent which sends the biting insects into paroxysms of
fury each time he punches them off the wall.
Norman says, "I wouldn't tease those things; they bide their time and
they will get you. Maybe not those ones but their relatives down the road.
Mosquitoes know. They are of one mind and one soul. What one knows all
the others know."
Jay, "I don't think so, besides we are out of here tomorrow. These are
just little itty bitty things. They may take some blood, but I don't think they
can do any real damage."
'Spoken like a true nitwit.' Aloud, "Don't say I didn't warn you. My
advice is to be careful. My dad told me, his dad told him and I believe it. If
You don't, please don't say so in my presence." Norman shakes his bedding
free of a couple of huge spiders.
69

T
Stephen Pranteau

Jay steps on the spiders and gives Norman a nasty grin as he readies his
bedding. He is not as thorough as his 'cuzzay,' but he is not climbing into
bed uninvited.
Norman, turning, sees a snake slither from Jay's blanket, lifts it's head
and with flicking tongue, disappears underneath the tent. Ignoring it, he
turns around and goes to sleep.
Jay is cold as ice and can feel himself sink lower into the quicksand. It
tugs at his heels. Try as he might, the quicksand does not release him. The
roar of a bear knocking down trees to get to him, makes him want to scream,
but no sound comes from his dehydrated, constricted throat. He feels hot
breath on his cheek and something shaking his shoulder. He strikes out.
Norman sees Jay thrashing about in his nightmare as he makes coffee.
Norman decides, after watching the flailing of the arms, the sweat and the
weak whimpers that he's had enough. As he rouses Jay, a jabbing fist punches him in the eye. Falling over with a red haze blanketing his right eye,
Norman lashes out, catching Jay on the shoulder.
Jay jerks upright to feel Norman's follow-through strike his nose, which
instantaneously swells to twice its normal size. Clutching his bleeding nose,
shrieking, "I can't see." Jay pulls himself to his knees with his head down
on his blanket. Bleating, he keels over.
Dazed, Norman is in a comer of the tent with one hand over his swollen
eye. The resulting slit leaves only enough room for the eyelashes to poke
through the lids. The eyelashes grind against his eyelid. He can feel the optic
nerve go into denial, then shock. He moans, opens his other eye which is
now in sympathy for his injured orb and will no longer focus.
Both men start to swear. Norman is swearing under his breath while Jay
curses out loud.
Then Norman says, "I think we better get out of here." Holding his face
he says, "I have coffee ready, get your clothes on and lets go, before I kill
you."
"It's not my fault. You shouldn't come up and shake me when I'm having a nightmare."
"Nightmare, bull! You should have gotten up when I made a fire and
coffee. Come on, let's leave."
The men drink the scalding coffee in painful contemplation until finally Norman says, "Bundle everything left in the tent, then bring it to shore.
I'll pack the canoe, then I'll come and help with the tent."
"No need, I'll finish up here and bring things to the canoe," says Jay as
70

I

Stephen Pranteau

he steps out into the fresh grey dawn, feeling refreshed in spite of his big
bloody nose. "Blood will wash off." Jay packs everything into neat bundles.
"My nose will unswell, no I mean ... deflate, hell, it's not blown up." He
can't seem to think straight so he lets it pass to wait for the swelling to
recede and hopes his nose returns to normal.
The tent is the last to come down. He unties all his pegs, pulls everything off the frame, lays the tent flat on the ground and begins folding. When
that's done, he pulls the pegs out of the ground and ties them onto the tent
bundle. "Don't want to have to make pegs every time we want to put up the
tent."
Jay looks around and sees he's done a good job, decides that he needs
to lay down for a moment. Leaning against the bundled tent, he hears
Norman approach the now disassembled camp. He feels a kick at his foot
and listens to his cousin as if he is far away.
"Come on Jay, get up, we have a long way to travel."
Jay leaps to his feet before he's completely awake, staggers slightly. His
cousin warily catches him by the arm.
"Are you okay?" Norman protects his injured eye like a boxer.
Jay rights himself and replies, "I'm fine. Let's get going," One hand
covering his nose.
Norman picks up a bag, then heads to the lake.
Jay watches two cousins bounce to the shore until the two merge. He
tries to avoid focusing on his nose, but it seems to grow in proportion to not
thinking about it. His eyes tire, he closes them, opens them, shrugs and picks
a couple of bundles and trudges after his relative. 'My nose is so sore. That
was some dream. I wonder how Norman is able to see with only one eye.
I'm having a hard time seeing around this nose.'
Norman is having trouble because his undamaged eye is not adjusting
as quickly as he would like.
Soon everything is in the canoe.
Jay picks up one of the bundles and says, "Hah! Emergency canoe, I'm
glad we didn't need it on this trip. I'll put this baby some place where we
can get it. Leave a small space in the middle for it."
Norman complies. "I hope we don't need it. Is everything cleaned up at
the camp site?"
Jay nods.
Norman says, "Well, let's get on our way."
Before leaving, the men say a silent prayer. Norman lights cedar and
sweetgrass, then turns to the four directions. He drops the ashes into the lake.
71

Stephen Pranteau

The laden canoe is pushed away from the shore. The silence of the forest lake is broken by the sound of a loon upset at their trespassing. "When
did that sucker get here?" asks Jay, "No wonder the ducks left in such a
hurry."
Norman replies, "He wasn't around all week, must have been out fishing in another lake. Who knows? The only thing I know is that they don't
like ducks and they kill them."
"I know and these bloody loons taste like sardines or something equally vile."
The men paddle and tell each other jokes and after they reach the first
lake they get into more open water. This is a bigger lake and one they must
cross to reach the river to their home lake. After a few miles portage past a
small rapids, followed by a short passage across a large water body, they
would be home.
The travellers reach the opposite shore as evening begins to show its
long shadow over the day.
Norman cuts and assembles the saplings for the frame.
Jay drops pegs where he thinks they'll be required.
Norman shakes the tent out.
Jay pulls out the small gas stove to make tea and cook supper. "There
isn't much to eat. There's been nothing to shoot and the only fish we could
catch were a couple of these bony perch. Cleaned and fried, they will make
for an adventurous night meal."
After supper, they pull the tent over the frame and crawl into their bedding.
Jay hears the mosquitoes buzzing around the tent. He slaps the canvas
and laughs. He goes to sleep and dreams of home and a nice soft bed.
The next morning, rising with the sun, they know that they have to cross
the portage with just enough time to paddle across their lake before nightfall.
Norman does not want to be paddling in the dark since he is having trouble enough steering during the day. He shakes his head as he thinks of what
Jay said about seeing double. He thanks the Creator for looking after a couple of fools.
The camp knocked down and packed up enables them to paddle down
river ahead of schedule. They reach the rapids where they should unload the
canoe. The portage is not a long one but the bank is steep.
Norman turns to his cousin and says, "I know we can paddle these
72

Stephen Pranteau

rapids. I don't want to lug everything across on my back. Let's just go."
Jay peers at Norman, "Are you nuts? How good can you see out of
that eye of yours?"
"I know we can do this. My eye is fine." Norman lies.
"You know what, I don't like this idea of yours. But, it's not like they're
big rapids. I've been down them before, so what the heck." They push off
from shore and soon are in the grip of the river's powerful downward
plunge. Two very sharp curves planted with boulders soon threatens their
fragile craft.
Jay tells himself, "This should be a fifteen minute ride."
Norman yells, "You steer, I'll keep us off the rocks. Make sure we don't
go sideways. No matter what, keep us pointed down river."
The roar of the rapids drowns out everything. The white water foams
around their canoe, covering them in spray as the waves throw them back
and forth in rhythm.
Norman keeps his paddle always in readiness, switching from side to
side, not worrying about his cousin who is as expert as anybody. The work
is fast and furious and the canoe is not responding readily because of the
weight.
Jay is sweating, as well as being drenched from the spray. His arms soon
feel like they aren't attached anymore but still keep switching from left to
right almost rising upright to steer. The roar suddenly ceases and the river
no longer jumps and bumps but instead becomes an exceedingly fast flowing mass of water heading for its final destination.
The cousins, exhilarated and exhausted by their experience, wave their
paddles in the air. Their arms are no longer tired and their hearts start to beat
regularly as they slow down to breathe normally. The steep rocky cliffs that
had shot by during the rapid ride give way to a rocky shore and further along
are bays which have pebbles and beaches. The sand glows in the early afternoon sun. They are now approximately two and a half hours from home.
"We've paddled long enough. We should soon see the bay and the
pines." Jay is feeling good as they finally arrive at the land mark and angle
out into the lake. After about an hour, the men see what they think is a floating log. The log maintains the distance between them.
All of a sudden Norman realizes they are not chasing deadwood.
"Moose!" he yells to Jay. "He's swimming across the lake." He paddles
for the moose.
Jay steers the canoe toward the moose and adds his powerful strokes to
his cousin's and they skim toward the swimming animal. The anxious bull
73

Stephen Pranteau

peers at them.
Jay reaches for his shotgun.
Norman says, "Shh ... sit, and be quiet." He reaches for rope attached to
the canoe and makes a noose, motioning to pull closer to the swimming animal and drops the makeshift lariat over one side of the rack, Norman draws
the rope tight, motioning to his cousin to drop back but keep paddling. As
the canoe slows, he picks up his paddle,judges the animal's speed and keeps
time with his cousin.
Norman tries to steer the moose closer to the shore. If he doesn't, they
may end up miles from where they want to be, especially if they get caught
in the current he is trying to avoid. Once he is sure the animal is heading
where he wants, he allows it to travel freely.
As land quickly approaches, Norman goes into action. Placing his oar
in the canoe, he yanks on the rope, succeeding in slowing the moose but
does not advance the canoe. He needs to be beside the moose in order to
drown it. "The moose knows the water is shallow!" he yells to Jay, who is
now paddling twice as hard.
The agitated moose senses solid ground beneath him.
Norman yells, "Get closer! I need to get closer!"
They are within fifty feet of the beach.
Hooves scrape bottom and the animal surges forward jerking the canoe.
Jay's oar is almost ripped from his grasp as their vessel shoots forward.
The canoe leaves a weak rooster tail, it's being towed so fast.
The moose gets better footing and soon the shoulders of the huge beast
break the water.
The canoe is skimming the surface at a now break neck speed.
Norman loses his oar in the water, "Get the gun and shoot!"
The rocks jutting out of the lake near shore are coming at them.
Norman screams, "Forget the gun! Steer! Don't let us hit!"
Jay lets the gun fall back into the scabbard to concentrate on steering the
canoe.
They miss the rocks.
"Gun! Get the gun!" Norman is screaming. He is a demented figure,
with one massive purple eye, hollering, "Shoot the moose!"
Jay grabs the gun but Norman is sitting in front as the moose hits shore
at a gallop.
The fifteen hundred pound creature pulls the canoe up the squat lake
bank with no difficulty. It sways as it bounces along the rocks.
74

Stephen Pranteau

The canoe flies ten feet overland, lands with a thud and Norman is
deflated and unable to draw in breath immediately. Wheezing, he finally
manages to draw in oxygen.
Jay is attempting to aim the gun. All he can see is the moose's behind
as it leaps over fallen debris.
The deadfall holds as the canoe smashes into it and Norman is thrown
clear. He lands on the palms of his hands and hears a sickening crunch as
both wrists fracture.
Jay is still standing as the gun in his hands explodes. The emergency
inflatable raft released by a surge of energy inflates quickly, and just as fast
dies a gasping whoopee cushion death from thousands of pellet holes.
The canoe structure, not meant to withstand this type of abuse, splits in
three as Jay is thrown and is solidly wedged under the seat.
The moose is crashing through the bush.
Jay, still stuck, sees his cousin climbing onto his feet.
With a lopsided grin on his face he peers at Jay and says, "Well, Cos,
wasn't that a hell of a ride?" He holds his hands by his side and adds, "I
think I broke both wrists."
Jay tries to get out of his predicament to find that he has no leverage to
extricate himself. "Come here and help me get out of this."
Norman replies, "I can't do anything, my wrists are swelling. I think I
broke them. They hurt so much." He's whimpering.
Jay replies, "I need leverage to get out of here. My behind is stuck.
Come and stand where I can get a hold of you."
Norman stands beside his cousin as Jay grabs his leg to get the leverage
he needs.
He bandages his cousin's wrists and surveys the damage. "That does it
for the canoe. Where do you think the moose has gone with the prow? Must
be halfway to the Arctic Circle."
"That moose sure can move. We completely misjudged it."
"What do we do now? How far do you think we are from home? Two
miles? Three? Five? No matter. After I get you bandaged up, I'll start walking. If I don't make it back, by nightfall, you can expect me tomorrow."
Norman is nodding as he agrees, "I need you to gather some brush for
kindling and maybe get my blanket spread out. At least I'll be able to keep
warm if you don't get back. I think you should stay, you know why?
Someone is always travelling. If we wait, we'll get a ride home."
"That could be a long wait. I'll follow the shore, shouldn't be a problem." Jay is not as confident as he claims to be; in fact he is full of doubts,
75

Stephen Pranteau

"I haven't been this far from home along the shore. You have. Is there anything I should know about?" asks Jay.
"No ... o" the 'no' trails off as Norman ponders the route home. "It was
a long time ago." He recalls a creek, "You will have to walk beside this creek
for a mile inland to cross at a safer distance. I was told not to try to cross
earlier if I was on foot."
"Were you told why?" queries Jay.
"Nope," replies Norman.
"I'll see you in a while," says Norman as Jay turns to the shore and clatters away.
The stones underneath Jay's feet change continuously in shape and size.
He reaches the creek before long and looks it over. It is a slow wide creek.
The scummy water smells stale and is about six inches deep, covering a
muddy bottom. Looking out over the lake, he sees that the silt is widespread
around the mouth of the creek. "The far shore looks to be about a quarter of
a mile away. Too far to swim," mutters Jay. "I'd like to keep my gun with
me if I could, so I'll walk across a little ways down." Jay starts down the
creek bank. The ground rises and falls. At a low bank, he figures, "I'll try
crossing here."
Raising a storm of flies, he makes his way to the smelly water and slimy
mud which immediately rises to his ankles. It squelches as he picks his feet
carefully through the muck. Gingerly stepping into the creek, takes another
step and begins to sink. Angling into the water, he escapes by pulling his feet
out of his boots. Turning around and scrambling out of the creek forces him
to leave his boots in the mud. On shore amidst all the flies, he watches his
boots sink. Looking at his muddy socks, and the way he came down, he
decides to go on.
The path meanders in and out of the forest. Even with no shoes, the walk
is pleasant.
A tree has fallen across the path and Jay can't see a way across except
to climb over. Tossing the gun over and finding a handhold, he climbs the
huge tree blocking his route. The hunter makes it over the top before a wayward branch cuts into his eye. He feels a needle enter his eye. He clasps it
as he screams and loses his balance, ending by falling head first off the
trunk. Branches tear at his face and his clothing shreds as he rips through the
branches.
Stupefied, regaining his footing and gingerly touching his face which
feels like a mass of raw hamburger, he steps forward. He can hear flies
76

Stephen Pranteau

buzzing around him. Blinded, he stumbles away from the fallen tree and
falls into the creek. He is surprised to find a clear brook filled with cold
water. He washes his battered visage and tenderly feels his damaged eye. He
can't see his gun anywhere, but doesn't want to spend too much time looking for it.
Crossing the creek, he finds the route is full of sharp stones and treacherous roots. His feet are soon cut to ribbons. The bugs are eating him alive.
He swats them and comes away with a mass of dead carnivores in his hand.
As he stumbles into a clearing and leaves the creek route, he begins a
dangerous hike into the forest. Staggering away, thinking he can hear the
sound of water nearby, loses himself in thicker woods.
As Jay wanders into a clearing, he hears a snort behind him. Turning to
dodge any danger, he discovers a moose rising onto its haunches, with a
rope around his antlers. Jay stands frozen as the moose backs up. It stands
there snorting and finally lies down. Jay, through his irritated eyes, can see
the moose is bound to some saplings and is unable to move.
The moose, sides heaving, scowls at Jay.
Jay looks into the mad eyes and is moved to compassion. He inches forward.
The moose keeps his eyes on him, decides that he is harmless and waits.
Jay reaches out murmuring kind, soothing words as he tugs at the rope.
Managing to get the moose to tum its head to create slack in the noose,
allows him to free the moose of the tether. Jay trips and falls while backpeddling, hitting his head on a stump. He loses consciousness.
Disoriented, Jay wakes up to dim lighting and grasps his aching head.
He wanders around the woods bouncing from tree to tree until it is too dark
to see anything. Discovering a hollow in the ground, he finds he has to tum
around numerous times to find a comfortable niche to rest. The mosquitoes
he's been slapping now fly to him in droves. Their incessant high pitched
whine is driving him crazy as he pulls his tattered jacket around him and
burrows his face into the ground.
Jay wakes to find heavy slobbering lips on his face. He opens his good
eye as he feels hot fetid breath on his face and sees a red thing being dragged
across his face behind some very huge teeth. The bear licking his face stops,
looks at him, and swats him on the shoulder, then steps over the prone Jay
to meander away.
Jay, trembling in fright, listens until he can't hear the bear any longer.
He gets up. The bear has dislodged his shoulder. Reeling, he finds his body
has been anaesthetized under so many mosquito bites. He is a mass of welts
77

T
Stephen Pranteau

on every available piece of skin.
He bites his hand to keep from screaming lest he bring the bear back.
Jay stumbles away from his den to the first obstacle, another fallen tree,
s_mo~th from ~ears of use by animals. Wearily climbing atop the once majestic pme, he shdes heavily down the other side. As he lands he feels a piercing injury to his foot. Jay looks down to see a gory branch sticking out of
his foot. Screaming, he does not care if the bear and his damned uncle hears
him. The anguished scream becomes a lamenting shout from deep in his
soul because death is near if he doesn't get help.
Jay's wail is broken by the sound of his name along with uttered
curses.
"For Christ's sake, Jay, where are You? Yell to us!"
Jay is not yelling. He is bellowing, "Here!. .. Here I am!"
"At that point," Jay says to the rapt audience around him, "I would have
kissed the moose's behind if he would have helped me."
"That's the strangest thing," says Norman, "The rescuers had come by
shortly after Jay left and had gone after him. It got dark soon and they called
off the search. The strange thing is that the moose led us to Jay the next day.
It came to the lake and after chasing it, we found him."
Jay interrupted to tell the grandkids, "If I had stayed with Norman, I
wouldn't have had to endure all those bites and this foot, which bothered me
all of my life."
Norman adds, "The moose would not have had to save you but we made
it out by the skin of our teeth. Oh yes, we had teeth in them days." He grins
at the children and clicks his false teeth.
Jay said, "Norman found out who his friends were that time. Both his
arms were in a sling, and he couldn't do anything for himself. It's a good
thing he was married already. His mom already had him in diapers and once
was enough!"
Everybody peals with laughter as lights from the construction generators start flicking on and turn night into day.

I
I

The Metis Dance of Doom!
Eagle Soar, Eagle Soar!
This is an actual account of working the coat check of an un-named
Metis dance. People's names have been changed to protect my butt.

I
I
I
I
I

I
78

Trevor Cameron

I

Let me take you back to a time when the World Wrestling Federation
was real, girls were a mystery, and my fight with acne had just begun in
earnest. That's right, the mid-eighties. This is my story of the night I learned
about love.
I was working the coat check at yet another local Metis dance. That was
one of the many jobs that I did. I would stand at the door behind a small desk
and hopefully get a few tips from drunks as I doled out their coats at closing time. Sober people never tip.
I was working with my friend who was a great artist and he donated
some drawings of eagles for the door prizes. In actuality my mom bought
them off him and donated them. Naz and I, Naz is the name of my friend,
sat at the door and watched the mostly drunk people dance and flirt with one
another.
Since we were very sober we took particular notice of 'drunk dance.'
You know; beer in one hand and stagger, stagger left, stagger, stagger right
and spill. Then repeat until you fall down or the music stops.
The night was half through and I had one of my ESP moments. I knew
that this night was going to hold some strangeness. It was time to give away
the door prizes. Naz was thanked by the attending Metis council and the
prize was awarded to this real drunk biker type Metis. He wore a Harley
Davidson shirt, the kind with white sleeves that went all the way to the
elbow and brand new boot cut, black levis. He also had this huge moustache
that covered most of his face. He staggered to me and Naz holding the pictures of the eagles in his hands.
I feel I have to give you some back story on the pictures in question. I
found a picture of an eagle on an american courier envelope and Naz had
one National Geographic with a picture of an eagle in it. Those were Naz's
post haste inspirations for these two naturalistic drawings.
The drunk moustache face looks us over and starts telling us about
how true these pictures were.
"Hey man, yer a great drawer man, cause I rode with eagles man! Yah,
I rode with them everywhere cause I'm a biker, man!"
79

T
Trevor Cameron

I

Trevor Cameron

I
Naz and I stood there waiting for him to finish. He introduced himself
as Ace and Naz thanked him for the slurred compliment. But suddenly Ace
got real serious.
"I gotta know man ... How long did it take to draw these?" Ace asked.
"About a day." Naz answered.
"But how did you get the eagles to stay still for so long to draw them
though?" Ace asked still unmoving.
We both thought he was joking but we realized he was being dead serious. "Patience, dude." Naz finally said and Ace accepted it as the truth. He
stuck out his hand in the old brother type handshake.
"Eagle soar, man. Eagle soar." He shook out hands without another
word and staggered back to the dance floor.
I looked at Naz and said, '"Patience, dude?' What the hell?"
He looked back at me and held out his hand. "Eagle soar, man. Eagle
soar." We shook hands and started to laugh.
That was when the door opened and I saw Mandy. She was a girl that I
had worked with over the summer on the same grant through the Metis federation. I had the greatest crush on her.
She was quite a sight to behold standing in the doorway. She was tall,
brown and athletic. She had on sheer black stretch pants that never covered
her ankles, a cool black bolero cropped jacket and little white Reeboks. She
was a Eighties fashion plate.
"Hey Trev!" She yelled and gave me a big hug. Hello beer breath my
old friend, I thought as I held her for that moment. She let go and looked
past Naz and to the dance. "There's a lot of people here."
I know she probably said more but my hormones kicked in and my ears
throbbed. All I could do was look at that goddess disappear into the dance.
Naz snapped me back into reality by saying, "Hey, isn't she supposed to
show you a ticket or something?"
He was right so I ran off into the direction that I last saw her going. I
ended up at the bar. I asked the bartender, my brother Sam, if he saw this
woman, but as soon as I opened my mouth, I saw her. She was in the side
room where they kept the alcohol. She was in the process of stuffing the
sixth long neck beer into her stretch pants. That moment I wanted to be a
beer bottle. There they were, trapped between the most beautiful flesh and
the sheerest pants. The beer perfectly contoured in black cotton spandex. I
could even make out the twist off caps.
Before I could say a word, Sam came in to get some beer. Automatically

I
I

I tried to defend my princess but the evidence was overwhelming and she
was summarily kicked out of the hall.
That's when she turned into my love object from hell. First she began
trying to kick in the door for her 'beer.' I tried to talk to her through the door
but she was none too happy with me.
Finding that she couldn't bust the door with those beautiful Reeboks
she sashayed drunkenly to the parking lot. She finally found something that
her Reeboks could damage. Mandy broke about ten car windows before
Sam found out and called the cops. I plead with him not to go out there but
he wouldn't listen. You see, my thinking was that just in case I ever took her
home to meet the family I didn't want them to remember her for breaking
our car window and keying the new paint job.
I waited outside at the hall door as my bro went into the parking lot. I
could hear them arguing about the beer, the cops, and the fact that she was
smashing everyone's car windows. That's when she rushed him. Sam caught
her by the throat with both hands and held her as far away from him as possible. The problem with his plan was the fact that he was about six inches
shorter than Mandy and her reach was a lot longer
Man, could that girl throw a punch! There was my brother walking her
out to the road and she's doing numerous combinations to his face. His head
was snapping back like one of those speed bags boxers use but he just kept
walking.
Left! Right! I couldn't tell which hand was weaker. Every shot impacted solidly in his face. Sam just kept walking toward the road.
I'll never forget the wise words of my brother as he escorted her out of
the parking lot. "YOU (BANG!) CRAZY (BANG!) BITCH! (BANG!)
STOP (BANG!) PUNCHING (BANG!) ME (BANG!) IN (BANG!) THE
(BANG!) FACE! (BANG!)."
That was the story that night. The cops did come and take her away. Sam
woke up with two black eyes and I, well I never had the guts to ask her out.
I learned three things that summer night: One, being the doorman and
coat check person can be interesting. Two, my brother is a good bartender
and can take a lot of punches to the face. And finally, three, Eagle Soar!
Eagle Soar!

I
I

I
80

l

81

T
Jeannette Armstrong

Okanagan Recipe
Original Appeared in Okanagan Cook Book "Life's too short to stuff a
mushroom." 1997
I thought about what I could contribute to this prestigious collection. * Since
I so seldom prepare creative cuisine, being limited in my creative skills to
cooking up new plots for my points of view, my difficulty was in sending in
an original (let alone an aboriginal) recipe. I wondered if perhaps stewing
for awhile over old leftover prose pieces could somehow be counted and
worked into a flavourful combination to warm the soul. Or perhaps, I
mused, I could do something with each trifling little detail which I laboured
over for hours and ended up cutting in the final edit. It could produce such
a savory concoction if glorified by stirring in one ounce of the sublime.
Speaking of which, ounces I mean, I thought of the full measure of flowing
phrases which plop ripe and juicy with sweet innuendo into your early
morning half-sleep and how they might be squeezed of every ounce of
meaning and mixed into an elixir of heavenly home brew fit for royalty to
imbibe (which only they do) and we could drink, perchance to dream. Back
to everyday reality, I thought of the thick haunches which I would like to
roast and bum to a crisp and carve with relish, having attended and blackened a few roasts in my friendly neighbourhood. Alas and alack I seem to
have hit a dry spell and out of desperation am prone at such times to suggesting anything. Cliche and old adage overunneth my cup. Sauce up everything. Dressing plain old salt of the earth fare can miraculously produce silk
purses out of sow ears (edible but hard to stomach). Sugar and spice sure is
nice. See what I mean. Oh to have the wisdom of the sage. I could simmer
forever without having to ever serve up anything original. At such trying
times (like this one to contribute) it is with chagrin I offer humble pie and
suggest tried and true fare. I always eat crow when all else fails. Try some
with a pinch of tongue in cheek for a fresh new taste.

Colonization

I

I
I
I
I
I

I
82

l

J.B. Joe

Poem of 29 Lines
Series 2
shades dancing seemingly unknown to all and sunder freedom they
yell feeling down and out at the time no longer aware that time
has made yet another mark on a cave wall someone once told me a
dream woke me with fledgling facts alluding to some sort of truth
mingling with faint odour of sex not knowing what on this goddess
forsaken dream we call life in our weaker moments what are we all
so worked up about someone would like to know that if it isn't
going to be important in the end madly flinging shadows neatly into
dust particles in space for whoever wanders into the territory
maybe a lone tourist as a matter of fact it is a woman calling
herself the one and only pooba that's me only on one wants
to admit it although a faint voice travelling along the edge of a
fine line echoes a refrain from a postcard depicting a cave
let us pray what we deeply desire only an obscure
emotion maybe smatter cat got your tongue well don't worry child
it all adds up to a correct number in the final analysis sex is
probably a recourse malone should maybe write that somewhere
rainy day evenings are useful although I've heard tell if you pull
a cover up to your chin while making love it helps somewhat malone
in a comer clutching his mexican blanket about his own chin head
lowered in anticipation of a question ultimately on someone's mind
who are you and what are you doing here actually for the record
attachments may be difficult to maintain but for chrissakes hold
your tongue if it takes forever after all when the stream finally
settles on an issue already we forgot the original position we took
in the first place lessons learned instructions fall by the wayside
a finishing touch is added for good measure a last ditch effort
made and abandoned lest the pooba should chance by scattering beads
maps schemes compasses endless forms battlecries

85

Sherida Crane

"Shifting Savage Moods"
I thought about Jerry Yellow Old Lady how he could play basketball and the
time he scooped ice down my blouse at a bar I was so drunk he disapproved
maybe disrespected and I didn't talk to him for two years then he was sitting on the bleachers at the Siksika POW-WOW sitting next to some girl
with long hair and he gave me the eye and hugged me good-bye at the education building when I told him I was cruising to the Okanagan Nation I
dreamt about him for two weeks then remembered the ice and how Buffalo
muscles made strong thread for beadwork
"SHIFTING SAVAGE MOODS"
The father of my warrior daughter didn't go dancing didn't drink was
extremely spiritual one night while camping the firelight hit his face he wiggled all over his lawn chair when this white woman talked to him he unbuttoned one of his shirt buttons and then he got up stuck his hands in his pockets and went to help this woman start her car and we never kissed again and
I remember how women threw hot rocks into Buffalo's stomach to boil to
drink
"SHIFTING SAVAGE MOODS"

Sherida Crane

I dated this long braided man who wore suits at the Aboriginal Professional
Association and he bought me a Italian suit cause I don't wear skirts and he
came to my granny's house and didn't even shake her hand and refused to
eat her Saskatoon berry soup and I told him he was lost and I didn't feel like
finding him like a Indian woman messiah and I remembered how Buffalo
ribs made strong sleds to slide down the Sandhills
"SHIFTING SAVAGE MOODS"
I was riding on the greyhound cause my transmission went on my truck and
this Indian cowboy sitting next to me made me laugh in the belly and didn't
talk too much and we shared silence walked in fields of wheat and he kissed
my lips till they went numb brushed his teeth and washed his face in my
granny's blue basin and told me I would be afraid of chasing Buffaloes over
cliffs and I remembered how the Buffalo tongue was sacred and a delicacy
among Siksika
"SHIFTING SAVAGE MOODS"

My Navajo lover told me that sex was overrated and I avoided him until after
our wedding date I like kissing till I can't feel my lips no more and I remembered how we used Buffalo shit to fuel fire
"SHIFTING SAVAGE MOODS"
I went with the guy from the reserve and his blank stares pulled rage out of
my hands but we went to the mountains in Banff and saw two Eagles flying
together so this meant we were to be together on the eve of our vows I saw
an OWL and knew I would die inside if I signed the paper so I climbed out
the window and remembered how Buffalo sinew made bows
"SHIFTING SAVAGE MOODS"
I really liked this Cree guy he sucked my cheek and gave me a hickey on my
high cheek bone and his mother chased him with a broom yelling, "What
the hell are you doing sucking her face?" I tickled him and he didn't like it
so he threw me against a wall and I knew it was bad medicine and I remembered how Buffalo hair was good for fancy dance belts
"SHIFTING SAVAGE MOODS"
86

87

Don L. Birchfield

Gail Duiker

Elementary Choctology

Sunday Chicken And Soft-Spoken Tom

The new governor of French Louisiana meets the Choctaws:

Tom was a soft-spoken Cree from Cutknife. He was my father. But as
far as mothers went, a trail of women moved through our lives. In the end,
I was the only one who stayed.
Perhaps it was his gentle doe eyes that gave him trouble. They showed
his heart and it wasn't far to his pocket book neither. However, for me, his
eyes told me I could trust him completely. With these expressive eyes, he'd
look at me. "Hear how I found you? You were like a half-drowned kitten in
front of the Biggar Hotel."
"Then ... ? what next?" I would ask just because he liked to tell the story.
"Then the cook tried to get you into the hotel with a big hamburger.
Stubborn bugger, you were. Wouldn't budge!" His narrow shoulders would
straighten proudly. He'd tilt the worn tweed hat back, enjoying his role.
"There you were, a little Injun girl sitting there like the world passed you by.
So I gave you a quarter and said 'Go buy yourself a Hires root beer.' Tom
always shook his head at this part. "You threw the quarter back and said, Go
drink your beer yourself."
His eyes would sadden, "You was put here for God's punishment, to
straighten me out." Woefully he'd say, "And no more beer." He just did this
for emphasis. I was just a kid, not no law enforcer RCMP. Anyway, the way
I remember it, Tom went in for his beer. When he came out a large lady was
draped on his arm. I noticed them coming down the sidewalk, her stockinglegs heavy and his feet tiny. He was strutting like a rooster, silver spurs on
those size 6A cowboy boots.
His boots stopped beside me. "Still here, little critter?" Head cocked,
he says to the woman, "Doreen, what say you and I get a bit of fresh air?"
But it was he that sat down beside me and asked me in Cree, "Where's
your mother?" I pretended they weren't there, especially the nosy man.
"What's your name?" he asked again in Cree.
I heard him all right. I didn't answer.
"Darned women," he said scratching his head.
"Geez, God made them funny. Talk when they want and when they
don't, can't get them started!"
Sighing, he informed Doreen, "I'm going in to page the responsible
party."
He was gone for a long time. Doreen offered me a stick of Juicy Fruit.
I took the gum, seeing there were no strings attached.

"It seems to me that they are true to their plighted faith. But we must be the
same in our transactions with them. They are men who reflect, and who have
more logic and precision in their reasoning than it is commonly thought."
Kerleric, 1753

One year later:
"I am sufficiently acquainted with the Choctaws to know that they are covetous, lying, and treacherous. So that I keep on my guard without showing
it." Kerleric, 1754

88

89

Gail Duiker

Finally, Tom came out. "Lookit, Doreen, no one knows who she belongs
to. You're a woman, what do you say?"
"Take her down to the RCMP station, Tom. Let them take care of
her!"At this the little man paled. "Throw her in the coop? Naw, I ain't no
stoolie!"
Looking thoughtful, he threw a sideways glance at me.
Then he looks at Doreen, "I told you I got a spread. We'll leave word
here for them to put up a notice at the post office. Anyway, word will spread
through the moccasin telegraph."
"You'll get us thrown in the caboose," Doreen warned with a head
shake.
This was where the conversation ended for me. My eyes had fought
sleep for three days, now they closed. I awoke in a dim-lit cabin and there
was an awful smell. Turning my head, I could see Doreen across the room.
She was cracking eggs into a smoking frying pan. Between the egg cracking and grease splattering sounds, Doreen and Tom argued. "What'm I to do
with a child?" she asked. "Anyway, who says I'm staying?"
The smell of burnt eggs filled the cabin.
"You tryin' to kill us?" questioned Tom as he swung open the cabin
door.
Walking to the stove, he dismissed Doreen away with a wave. He tucked
a bleached flour sack into his striped coveralls. Clouds of flour rose. Soon
there was bannock on the table. Finally he made bacon and good smelling
eggs.
"Okay kid, you can come out now!"
I pretended to sleep.
"Last call," he said, "you come and eat or I'll leave the cookin' to
Doreen here next time."
I came and sat down.
As the days stretched into weeks, the arguments went on. Doreen would
protest that Tom wasn't trying hard to find my family.
"The RCMP..." she'd say, then Tom would walk away.
"It's not the Indian way!" he'd say.
I was beginning to forget my mother's face, the edges of my child memory blurring. What I did remember was her eyes, which were not much different from Tom's.
"The old women are talkin'! I may not be from this reserve, but I can
hear them. I can make it out. They think this one is mine!" she motioned her
90

Gail Duiker

mouth toward me. Clanking around the kitchen, she cleaned up.
"How many times I got to tell you, her name is Janet-Marie?" scolded
Tom. He was changing the subject.
True, it was my name. I had held out telling for what seemed a long
time. But when Tom told me his spotted pony wanted to know, I told. Weeks
became months. Old Doreen and I, it looked like we was becoming family
to Tom. No more was said about notices or telling the RCMP about me.
Then we came upon hard times. I guess I must have been about five.
Anyway, it was before I started school.
It began by Tom bringing home very little game. We had already eaten
most of the chickens without killing the best egg layers. Tom had already
sold off a horse or two.
One night, they sent me to bed early. Lying there, my ears perked up.
"I guess I'd better leave the reserve for awhile. I heard there's work
puttin' up fences south," Tom stated.
High-pitched, Doreen's voice accused, "You're not going to leave me
here are you? Those women, they don't like me. I saw them countin' the
months I been here, just in church, too!" Her fingers drummed the table nervously.
"Oh, all right," soothed Tom, "I'll figure somethin' out. The mare's
foalin' Probably, I'll get a good price later. Maybe I could get a down payment from a guy down south I know."
Next day, Tom returned from hunting with a few squirrels.
"I'm not eatin' them gophers!" Doreen says when she sees them.
"What kind of lnjun are you anyway?" Tom looked at her in surprise,
"These ain't no gophers!"
Doreen sniffed haughtily and stomped away. And she stuck to her guns,
too. Not one tooth touched that squirrel meat.
Not even Tom's concerned looks swayed her. He eyed her ample curves
worriedly. "Say Doreen, you're not gettin' skinny are you?"
Now, hunger in the eyes of your loved ones makes you do contrary
things. One night both Tom and Doreen were acting unusually accommodating.
"You can stay up late," Doreen says to me. "Then we're goin' for a nice
truck ride. We'll see the stars and them nice northern lights!"
That night, Tom was picking out all the special stars.
"See that bunch there, Janet-Marie? That's the Big Dipper."
"Is it cloudy enough yet?" Doreen whispered.
"Shh," shushed Tom.
91

T
Gail Duiker

"There's old man Dumont's farm," Doreen said in her church voice.
"Right where you said it would be, Tom."
Tom didn't reply. Instead he asked me for the third time, "You sleepy
yet Janet-Marie?"
I'm not stupid. I pretended to fall asleep, my head resting on Doreen's
plump arm.
"That's it, she's asleep," whispered Doreen. Moving her arm gently
away, she smiled at Tom.
Suddenly, Tom crouched closer to the steering wheel and the windshield. He looked up at the night sky. "Really good," he said, "it's getting
cloudy."
He turned out the truck lights as we went down the hill. The silhouettes
of old man Dumont's farmhouse and chicken coops came closer.
"Kill the motor!" Doreen commanded.
"Okay, Okimaw," answered Tom in a strange voice.
The truck coasted forward slowly until it stopped right by the chicken
coops.
"Leave the doors open," Doreen whispered.
"Naw, the mosquitoes will get Janet-Marie. Jus' close it, light like."
As soon as they had climbed the fence, I sat up. An awful lot of
squawkin' was coming from the chicken coops.
It quit suddenly.
That's when I could make out Tom's slight figure running frantically
toward the truck. From his hands dangled two chickens, one still alive and
protesting.
Behind him, Doreen got hung up on the barbed wire fence.
There was a long ripping sound, then she too was in the truck. They
threw a limp-necked chicken on the floor.
"Let it rip!" she shouted forgetting herself. "Geez, I left part ofmy pants
back there."
I pretended to sleep. I think they wanted it so.
A dog began barking. One of Tom's chickens began jumping and
squawking. Doreen made a mad lunge at it.
"Let's get out of here," whispered Tom loudly.
As the truck roared down the road, old man Dumont's light went on.
The next day was Sunday. We went to church. The priest never mentioned the chickens.
Doreen saw someone she knew. "Isn't that old man Dumont there?"
92

I
I

Gail Duiker

Tom pretended not to notice. After church, we went straight home.
Within minutes, Tom had changed out of his Sunday suit. Around the
coveralls he tucked an old Red Rose bag.
"He was only a Sunday friend," he said to no one in particular.
Doreen brought up two chickens from the ice hole in the root cellar.
They were cleaned. Tom had been up late.
Into the pot the chickens went. Tom added secret spices.
The most mouth-watering smell came forth. And as Doreen set the
table, she eyed the stove longingly.
We were all waiting. Though what happened next was not what we were
waiting for.
Around the comer, came old man Dumont's red truck. He didn't drive
past.
He got out of the truck. Doreen mouthed the word RCMP and a look of
apprehension passed between her and Tom.
But when Tom answered the door, he was a different man. "Why, come
on in," Tom says to Dumont, like he was an honoured guest. "I haven't seen
you in a coon's age!"
Old man Dumont sniffed the air. "About to have Sunday dinner?"
Doreen smiled a stiff smile.
After a few cups of tea, it became apparent old man Dumont was not
about to leave.
"Sure smells good," he hinted.
Tom did what any self-respecting Indian would do.
"We'd be glad if you'd stay for dinner. It isn't much for a man who eats
chicken all the time. Jus' a little soup."
Doreen set another place at the table.
I sat by the window wide-eyed at all the goings on.
"Come and eat, child," Doreen called sweetly.
It was a marvellous soup, the kind that keeps women like Doreen happy.
With a dreamy look, she served herself more.
Old man Dumont had three bowls. He looked like he would never fill
up.
It was when Tom was biting into a chicken thigh, Dumont says. "Damn
those chickens! They sure are good. Best soup I ever tasted. Tell me, where
did you get them?" He slammed the table with his big fist.
"Geez, I'd sure like to have me some of those."
I thought Tom would choke. He mumbled, "Biggar! got them m
Biggar... ah ... awhile back. These are the last of 'em."
93

Gail Duiker

"Well," says Dumont, "I heard you was having hard times so I stopped
by. Thought I'd offer you some of my chickens, but I see you're fine. Damn good soup!"
That was a long time ago. Doreen liked old man Dumont's chickens so
much she took up with him. Me, I was stuck with Tom. I was family. Heck,
when you have family you do what you have to do. This certainly was true
for Tom, my father. Hunger made him contrary for that one time.
So this Father's Day when we were toasting fathers and roasting chickens I thought of Tom for a bit. I know he's up there in that big, open, chicken coop in the sky. I hope God has a sense of humour about Tom's Sunday
chickens.

Drew Hayden Taylor

The Seven "C"s of Canadian Colonization
On June 24, all of Newfoundland celebrated the 500th anniversary of
the landing of John Cabot's ship, the Matthew, on the Island. Back in 1497,
Cabot's was the first European ship to visit Canada (not including the
Viking's short stay in Canada's tenth province, back around 1000 A.D.). A
fabulous party was held, including a cameo appearance from her Majesty,
the Queen herself.
But not all were happy with the planned festivities. The Assembly of
First Nations as well as other Native organizations and individuals didn't
really see this as something to celebrate. Some consider Cabot's arrival as
the beginning of a campaign of genocide and cultural destruction that has
lasted 500 years. As an example, less than three centuries after Cabot's landfall, the Beothuks, Newfoundland's Indigenous people, were extinct. And
while that blame can't be specifically laid on Cabot's shoulders, most
Natives believe it started with him. At least in Canada.
But Cabot shouldn't have to shoulder the whole blame by himself. He
had a lot of company. Other venturers into the unknown have had effects on
Canada and it's Native people. And a surprising and interesting fact is,
unusually, the name of many of these explorers start with the letter "C".
Perhaps this is a pre-requisite for conquering Canada. For instance:
Columbus - The man who made getting lost an art form. The prototype for
men declining to believe they are lost and refusing to ask for directions.
While not specifically or directly connected to Canada, his arrival in the
Bahamas can be viewed as one simple earthquake starting several tidal
waves. However, it is ironic that many white people every year still prefer
to "discover" the Bahamas, and other spots in the Caribbean and Mexico
that he came upon. Perhaps white people are migratory.
Cortez - Again, while not directly related to Canada, his actions have had
wide reaching effects. He conquered an empire (the Aztecs) and was actually one of the few Conquistadors to die a rich man. At one point, he took a
Native woman as a mistress and Christianized her to make her more acceptable. Known as being ambitious, a womanizer, and twice being arrested for
breach of trust, it's no wonder he was a politician, a former mayor in a town

94

95

Drew Hayden Taylor

in Cuba.
Cabot - Cabot's real name was Giovanni Caboto. Probably the first many
men to change his name to get into Canada. Was amazed by the number of
fish available off shore. It is rumoured that the crew attached ropes to baskets and lowered them into the water, then pulled them up, overflowing with
fish. Ahh, the memories. Again, the first case of foreigners plundering the
Grand Banks.
Cartier - Founder of Quebec City in 1534. Misunderstood what the local
Natives were saying when he asked "what do you call this land?" as he indicated the countryside with his hand. Unfortunately the Native people looked
where he was actually pointing, at their village, and replied "Kanata - a
group of huts or a village." Kanata=Canada. The first misunderstanding
between the French and the Native population. But not the last.

l

Drew Hayden Taylor

Clark fame) who went to the Pacific Northwest looking for dinosaurs, and
Custer every aboriginal's favourite example of "do onto others as you
would' have them do unto you." But they lack that specific Canadian connection.
Most of these men were crawling through Canada's coast and interior
looking for either gold, jewels, or spices, or more specifically: a ~ew trade
route to India or China. On June 24th, I thought it would be tromcally fitting for there to be a whole line of Native protesters wait~ng on sho~e for the
landing of the Matthew, all holding signs saying "India and Chma: That
Way" and pointing north to the Northwest Passage. It would have done mo~e
to honour the spirit of these explorers than what the people m
Newfoundland had planned.
Or better yet, they should have had some Chinese or South Asians waiting on shore. That would have thrown them for a loop.

Champlain - The explorer of much of Central Canada. Though he spent
decades in the New World, oddly enough Champlain never bothered to learn
any of the aboriginal languages of the people he worked with and exploited.
Even then, Quebec's Language Bill 101 was in effect.
Cook - Explored much of the coast of British Columbia after discovering
Tahiti and the Hawaiian Islands while looking for the Northwest Passage.
Though he first came to light for his meticulous charting of the St. Lawrence
River in preparation for the British assault on the French at Quebec, and also
his precise charting of the whole length of the rugged coast of
Newfoundland. One of the first cases of Easterners moving to the West
Coast.
Christ - Subject of the world's first and best selling "biography." Christ did
more to change the lives of Canada's indigenous people then all the explorers put together. Unfortunately, sometimes for the worse, i.e. the Jesuits and
more recently the Residential schools. But many embraced the teachings of
this man and found happiness. The Church also brought more than just
Christ's messages to the Native people, they also brought bingo.
Other honourable mentions of people "discovering and conquering" this
continent whose name begin with the letter "C" include Clark (of Lewis and
96

97

Marie Annhart Baker

Last Ditch Religion
what about the Jesus picture in the house
should say something
spirituality becomes a guessing game
have to call myself
something believable
when visiting a res
I am told about an elder
what he said to a person
not too sure of a church to join
he asked what if after death
his or her body would get thrown in the ditch
even the born again traditionals
would be buried in a church cemetery
when it's too late not much choice
because right
righteous kind
relatives wan that way
so I found a faith
when I won't spout out evangelical
the spirits of the Mayans are back
so if I testify to ancestors back in Mongolia
how I know I'm related to Pocahontas
I've been both Indian and Asian
in former lives besides being a drunk
Danish sea captain killed in a brawl
I neglect to talk hellish about the Catholics
& sexual abuse & Pentacostal cover ups

& how Christians murdered Jews
don't want to convert anyone by accident
if I could be a Mayan scribe
more committed to writing down
major events of the day
I would write it all down in stone
to rest assured
a tribute to belief is in that Last Ditch Indian
what I wrote on paper will dissolve
go back to the earth
where more holy
our days of decay
98

Children

T
I

Bindi Ritchie

I
The Team of Cheese Bob

I

I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I
I

My twin sister, Teresa, scrambled up the crab apple tree before I could
stop her. I was too scared to go near the tree. The big, scratchy branches
were stretching out to grab me. Already Teresa was deep inside with the
leaves and twigs, almost at the top. I could barely see where she was anymore. I think that mean old tree ate Teresa up. Now I know why that tree
was called a crab.
"This is your captain speaking!" Teresa screamed at me. I nearly
jumped out of my skin. From deep inside the crab apple tree, her voice
boomed out again. "The airplane will be leaving for Egypt in five minutes.
Hurry up and buy your plane ticket if you want to visit the Queen of Sheba."
I slowly walked to the tree. "I don't want to play in the tree, Teresa. It's
too scary," I whined. "We can play airplane on the ground."
"Don't be so silly!" Teresa yelled. "You have to be in the air to play airplane." I didn't budge. That stupid old tree wasn't going to eat me, too.
"Climb aboard, passenger!" Teresa screamed impatiently. I held
my head down and looked at the ground as I edged closer toward the tree. I
wasn't as scared if I didn't look at the grab by-arm branches.
"That's right, passenger," Teresa bellowed. "For only five gazillion dollars you can fly to Egypt. It's a great deal. We'll be arriving there shortly, so
hop aboard."
I carefully placed my hands on the scratchy trunk of the tree. Looking
way up to the top, I could barely see Teresa inside the branches and leaves.
All I could see of her were two sparkly, brown eyes and a big toothy grin.
"Hurry up or we'll have to drive over top of you, passenger."
"Stop calling me passenger!" I wailed, still frightened by the crabby,
grabby tree.
"Did you forget my name or something." Wrapping my arms around the
tree trunk, I carefully wedged myself up to the first branch.
"There. I did it." I said proudly. Beaming with excitement, I sat as stiff
as a board on the branch. I barely breathed as I lifted my head slightly. Out
from underneath furry eyebrows, I glanced up at Teresa.
"Well - take me to the Team of Cheese Bob!" I demanded.
"That's the QUEEN of SHEBA, you silly passenger," Teresa said with
disgust. "If you 're not going to play properly, get out of my airplane."
"Then why did you tell me to get into the stupid airplane in the first
place?" I yelled.

I

I

101

Jacqueline Oker

Bindi Ritchie

Suddenly a big gust of wind blew up under the tree. It pushed the
branches and leaves into the sky. I was almost knocked off of my seat. As
the branches and leaves settled back down again, another gust of wind blew
up. This time the entire tree lifted out of the ground.
We could hear snapping and crackling sounds throughout the whole
tree. Crooked branches stretched out in front. The lower branches straightened out to the side and behind us.
All of a sudden, the tree was moving forward. Bending and stretching,
the branches lifted the tree and stomped across the lawn. Big, dark, scratchy
limbs waved in the air. SNAP! SNAP! The outer branches snapped together
like big pincers.
"TERESAAAAAAAAAAAAA! !!" I wailed. "The crab is going to eat
us!" I tried to scramble from my seat, but I stopped dead. I realized that ifl
jumped out ofmy seat, I would be on the ground. The crab would surely see
me.
"TERESAAAAAAAAAAAAA! !!" I wailed again. "Save me! The crab
is going to eat me."
"Don't be silly, passenger," Teresa explained calmly. "Crabs only eat
apples. That's why we have crab apple trees."
The leaves rattled as the crab's limbs began to thrash around me.
"Please don't eat me," I whined with fear. Suddenly, the crab stopped. "Oh
no!" I gasped. "It noticed me." Its limbs swirled and swished in the air, as
the crab tried to grab me.
SNAP! SNAP! Its pincers tore at my clothes. SNAP! SNAP! It swiped
at my arms and head. I banged up against my seat. "Ooooooh," I moaned.
This time a crab leg knocked against me sending my body slamming against
the other side of my seat.
I couldn't keep my balance any longer. I started falling. Quickly, I tried
clutching at my seat hoping to hold on. I grabbed and clawed, but it was no
use. It seemed like forever as I flew through the air. I landed on the ground
in a flurry of flailing arms.
"The crab!" I thought. I quickly scrambled to my feet ready to run in
any direction. When I looked back over my shoulder to see where the crab
was going, I gasped. The wind died down the moment I fell from my seat.
Now, all that was left behind me was a big, tired old crab apple tree. No legs.
No pincers. Just big, scratchy branches swaying slightly back and forth.
"Oh for crying out loud!" Teresa said with disgust. "Are you afraid of
the wind, too?"
102

Long Ago
In the beginning there was only Lynx (Nodda), Wolverine (Nowe) and
the earth with all of its trees, hills, flowers, mountains, grass and water.
Nodda and Nowe were sitting cross-legged across from each other by some
big oak trees near a lake.
"Hello, Hello," Nowe yelled, "is anybody out there?" There was no
answer. Even the wind was quiet. Nowe looked at Nodda. "Lets make something," Nowe said, "I'm bored stiff."
.
"You mean your business is stiff from not bemg used," Nodda teased.
"Cut that out," Nowe said, embarrassed. "I'm serious, I want us to
invent something."
"Like what?" Nodda said curiously. "Everything has already been made
by Beaver, Muskrat, and the big noise."
.
. .
.
"How about we make a computer?" Nowe said, spnngmg to his paws.
"A what?" Nodda asked wrinkling his eyebrows.
"A machine that will help us make things," Nowe replied.
Thinking about it, Nodda exclaimed, "That would be a good thing to
make!"
.
He jumped on his hind legs and rubbed his furry face, "But who will use
this thing you call computer?"
.
"We will, you dummy," Nowe said, "This computer will h~lp us to ~ake
T.V., radio, clock, remote control, vehicles, phones, answenng machmes,
and the list goes on."
.
"Stop, Stop," cried Nodda, "Who will use all these thmgs you speak
about?"
.
Nowe, annoyed with Nodda's ignorance slapped him on the side of the
head.
.
"You're such a duh," Nowe said ticked off. "These things we will make
for our children and for us to better communicate with each other."
"Our children?" Nodda said excitedly, "you mean we're going to have
·ds"
ki .
.
.
k ?"
"Why do you think the man upsta1rs gave us our business? To loo at.
Nowe said sarcastically. "Of course we're going to have kids."
Blushing, Nodda looked down at his business. ''I'm going to make lots
of kids all at once," Nodda said.
"Not me," Nowe said, "I'm going to make them one at a time so that I
can teach them all I know."
103

Jacqueline Oker

"That kid of yours will be pretty smart then," Nodda said jealously.
"Yep! Just like me," Nowe said, smiling proudly.
"Me too, I'll have one kid at a time," Nodda said.
"You can't change your mind like that," growled Nowe. "You said you
were going to have lots of kids and that's the way it has to be."
"According to who?" Nodda snarled. "Who made you boss anyway?"
"The man upstairs, who else?" Nowe said, sticking his hairy chest out.
"He made us both boss," whined Nodda.
"Not according to this book." Nowe picked up a weathered, yellow
stained book from behind the tree.
Nodda laughed at the sight of the book. "That book is so stained with
your piss that I bet you can't make what the words say."
"Don't you dare insult my intelligence," Nowe snapped, irritated.
Hearing this, Nodda only laughed harder at Nowe who was trying really hard to read the stained pages.
"There is more than one way to skin a cat," shrieked Nowe.
"What was that?" Nodda snapped back.
"None of your business," returned Nowe who put on a pair of reading
glasses. He glared at Nodda and attacked him. Their fur flew in all directions. A loud voice yelled, "What the hell do you think you two are doing?"
Nowe, who was about to give Nodda another swat, stopped his hands in
mid air. Deviously he said, "We weren't fighting, we were playing."
"Nowe is ... ," Nodda never got a chance to say, 'beating me up,' Nowe
crammed his clawed paw into Nodda 's mouth.
"If you say anything I don't like, I'm going to knock you out with my
piss. It's powerful medicine!" Nowe whispered.
Nodda, scared to death of Nowe's smell, said, "I won't say anything. I
promise with all my heart."
"What was that," the big voice roared.
"Nothing," Nodda and Nowe said in harmony.
"Get back to work then," the big voice said, "and if I get interrupted
again by your foolishness I will have to separate both of you."
Bowing their heads to the ground Nodda and Nowe apologized to the
big voice for aggravating him.
"You did good," Nowe said to Nodda patting him on the head, "you
saved my skin and for that you can help me make the computer and the
phone and all that stuff."
"What will the phone do?" Nodda asked.
104

Jacqueline Oker

"Do I have to tell you how everything works," Nowe groaned. "Look it
up in the dictionary; maybe you'll learn something."
Tears welled up in Nodda's yellow eyes.
"What are you crying about?" Nowe asked, rolling his eyes back.
"I'm crying because I don't know anything about T.V., phone, vehicle,
or computer."
"Come off it," Nowe said. "Do you think I know anymore than you do?
I've been using my creative mind and my god-given instincts to come up
with this stuff."
Nodda glared at Nowe. The tears in his eyes dried up. "Here I thought
all along I had no brain."
"Who told you that?" Nowe said breaking out into a chuckle.
"You."
"Me?" Nowe asked innocently. "I wouldn't do such a thing."
Nodda was about to say something but Nowe cut him off.
"Let's call the area where the computer remembers everything, the
brain."
Jumping around excitedly Nodda said, "That's a superb idea, and let's
give it a tail. We'll call it mouse and I can chase it when I want to play
instead of fighting with you."
"Now you're thinking," Nowe said, clapping his paws together and
jumping around.
.
.
"I know what else we can make," Nodda said, gettmg caught up m the
excitement. "A microwave."
"What's that?" Nowe said.
"Its a machine that can thaw, cook, heat things," Nodda said. Dollar
signs began to roll in Nodda's head. He was real happy with himself for
coming up with a new invention before Nowe did.
.
"And we can make freezer, fridge, coffee makers, and all the thmgs our
wives will need in the kitchen," Nodda meowed. He shook with excitement.
"Ya, that's a good idea," Nowe said. He was becoming jealous because
Nodda was coming up with more inventions than him. Just wait till after all
these things are made, Nowe thought. Nodda will be my guinea pig. I'll
experiment on him. A big smile crossed his face.
"What are you grinning about, Nowe?" Nodda asked. "I bet you're
scheming up something to out do me."
"I was just thinking about what I can make, now that you've come up
with everything to create," Nowe said.
"And what have you decided on?" Nodda said, walking around in a cir105

Jacqueline Oker

cle with his paws behind his back, thinking of what else to make.
"I'm still thinking. Something will come to me that needs to be
invented."
"Don't blow a fuse," teased Nodda. "I wouldn't want you making things
if you're not all there."
"Don't upset me," Nowe said, "I don't want to have to get mad and
scratch your beady eyes out."
"I'm only joking around," Nodda said, "don't take everything so seriously."
"You're right," Nowe said, "I have to work on that. Now let's get to
work making things."
On the first day Nowe and Nodda made the computer. They both
worked on different projects making all the electronic things we now see.
They worked non-stop for six full days and nights.
On the seventh day they stopped working and saw all that they had built.
"I'm exhausted!" Nodda exclaimed.
"Go to sleep then," Wolverine said. "While you 're sleeping I'll fine-tune
all these things we made and make sure they're all working properly."
"Be careful," Nodda said in between yawns, "don't get yourself electrocuted."
"Don't worry, I'm Nowe, remember? The smart one, I know what I'm
doing."
Going under the shade of the tree Nodda laid down.
"I'll tum the radio on, "Nowe said. "The music will help you go to sleep
faster."
"Sure thing," Nodda said, closing his eyes. The Eagles came through the
air waves, singing, "Peaceful easy feeling."
"Boy, that sure is an honest song," Nodda said, half asleep, "Those birds
sure know how to sing."
"Yep, that's a good song to sleep to," Nowe said.
Once Nodda was fast asleep Nowe wet him down in the lake and put
him in the microwave to dry off. Nowe wanted to test how well the
microwave worked. Just about that time Nodda had a dream. In it he was
getting it on with a woman. He was getting really hot. His heart was pounding really hard. He was about to drop his leggings when his ears popped.
"Hey!" Nodda screamed waking up. "Get me the hell out of here, my
heart is about to jump out of my chest and stop!"
Nowe laughed as he watched Nodda squirm around. Finally, he let him
106

Jacqueline Oker

out of the microwave. Sweat was pouring down Nodda.
"How did you like that sweat? Did you have a vision?" Nowe said in
between gulps of laughter.
"You stinking rat," Nodda snarled, "I could have died inside that
microwave. You're not to put living things like me inside microwaves. It's
dangerous!"
"I had to find out how it works," Nowe said, lowering his head. "Are you
okay?"
Checking himself over Nodda said, "Everything is in its place. Now let
me go back to sleep."
While Nodda slept Nowe lit the Barbeque. I wonder what would happen
ifl put Nodda on top of it? Nowe thought. I bet he'll keep sleeping. Very
gently he lifted Nodda from the ground and set him on top of the Barbecue.
For a while nothing happened. Then all of a sudden Nodda let out a scream
of fright.
"I'm on fire!" he shrieked. "Nowe, help me."
Nowe, who had gone to the lake, turned and ran toward Nodda. "Oh, my
goodness what have I done?" he said.
"Get the fire extinguisher!" Nowe yelled
Nodda, jumped around patting himself. He tried to stop the flames from
burning his sensitive skin.
Nowe ran, got the fire extinguisher and doused the flames out.
"Look at my fur," groaned Nodda, "it's been all singed!"
"You'll grow soft fur back," Nowe said, trying to reassure Nodda. "It
will look even better than before because it's been burned."
"It better grow," Nodda said very angry, "If it doesn't I'll freeze my ass
off this winter and you '11 be to blame."
Nowe, worried about what he done to Nodda, tried to make things better. "Why don't you have yourself a sun tan under that tanning bed now that
your hair is almost all gone."
"That's a good idea. I need to get myself back together before I get really mad and do something I will regret later on," Nodda said, taking a deep
breath. "Nowe play that Eagles on that CD machine for me. I sure like their
tunes."
Nowe looked over all the CD tapes they made but he couldn't find the
Eagles. "The Eagles must have flocked off. How about some Black Crows?"
Nowe yelled.
"What kind of music is that?" asked Nodda.
"Rock and Roll," said Nowe, "You'll like it. It will make you want to
107

Jacqueline Oker

dance."
"I want to relax, get some sleep," Nodda said between clutched teeth. "I
don't want to be bouncing all over the country, I'm tired. You understand!"
"Hey, that word bouncing makes me think of something you never
invented," cried Nowe excitedly.
"What now?" Nodda shot back frustrated.
"A ball."
"A what?" Nodda said, "What good is a ball in this world where everything is electric?"
"We need to play games you know. We can play things like volleyball,
basketball, tennis, golf. It will pass the time away."
"You're something," Nodda said cutting his tanning session short to go
lay under the tree again. "You don't fail to amaze me."
"What do you expect? I'm Nowe," Nowe said, shaking his skinny hips
to the song 'Jealous Again.'
"I like the crows singing better than them sleepy eagles," Nowe said,
snapping his fingers to the song blasting on the CD player.
"Nowe, shut that music down and let me get some sleep! If I don't get
sleep, I'm going to have black bags under my eyes," Nodda said. "Nowe, I
beg you please, let me get some zzz's for just a little while."
"That's no problem," Nowe said, "just go to sleep, don't let me bother
you. I'll just make myself some coffee on that electric coffee maker and
think about how to make these different kind of balls."
"Ya, whatever," Nodda said as he closed his eyes. Happy to be finally
getting some rest at long last, Nodda didn't think about tucking in his long
tail in between his legs. He had just gone back into a new dream when he
felt tingling going up his leg. Alarmed he woke up. He looked at his tail and
it was plugged into an electric outlet.
"Oh, my god!" screamed Nodda. "My tail is being electrocuted!"
"Pull yourself away from it," hollered Nowe.
Still half asleep Nodda obeyed Nowe's command. He ripped his tail.
Only a short stump was left.
"Nowe, look at what you've done to me," Nodda said in a rage.
"Don't worry about that tail of yours. It will grow back with your fur,"
Nowe said.
"It better, or else hell will break loose."
"You threatening me?" Nowe said raising his eyebrows.
"Yep, and don't forget it," Nodda snarled, showing off his yellow108

Jacqueline Oker

stained teeth.
"Whatever you say," Nowe said smiling and showing off his bright
white teeth which he just cleaned with Colgate.
Nowe finally made the balls to play with. He and Nodda played golf
everyday for a couple of hours. They got into fights over who won the game.
Nodda would come back from the games limping, scratched up or bleeding.
One day Nodda decided to get even with Nowe. The only thing he knew was
that he has enough of Nowe's beatings. He'd do something but he didn't
know what. He got himself some tea and sat under the tree to think. Along
came Mosquito.
"Where did you come from?" Nodda asked, "Nobody made you."
"I made myself," buzzed Mosquito.
"Well, since you're here, you might as well help me out-trick Nowe."
"What has he done to you that you're so upset about?" Mosquito asked.
"Look at me," complained Nodda, "I have dark circles under my eyes
and I'm about to have a nervous break down. If something is not done about
that Nowe be prepared to put me in a straight jacket and send me off to a
looney bin."
"Hey, tell me your troubles," Mosquito murmured.
"You wouldn't believe what that monster has been doing to me," cried
Nodda as tears fell down his face. "First he tried to cook me in that
microwave, then he singed my fur on that Barbeque, then he electrocuted
my tail, thinking it was the coffee maker's plug in. Look how short it is
now," Nodda said showing of his rear end to Mosquito. "There's hardly anything left."
"I can see that," Mosquito said, shaking his head.
"He then chased me around the golf course with that golf buggy until I
collapsed," continued Nodda. "Then he used his golf clubs on me. Beat me
while I was out cold. He also chased me around the earth with electric things
from the kitchen. I can tell you how big this earth is if you want to know,"
Nodda exclaimed, half out of breath.
"No, it's okay You can tell me later when you're under better control."
"Nowe has to be stopped! He's a danger to society."
"You're not kidding," Mosquito said, becoming concerned for his own
safety. "I can sting him real good, paralyze him and you can tie him up with
sinew and we can send him far away."
"Where on this earth can we put him where he won't escape?"
Thinking about the question Mosquito said, "I know, I know," his eyes
bulging with fire. "We can put him inside a video machine!"
109

Jacqueline Oker

"That's a good idea!" exclaimed Nodda. Unaware of his injuries he
sprung up and down on his legs saying, "Yes! Yes! Mosquito, I didn't realize your smarts were this good!"
"I'm Mosquito, what do you expect!" Mosquito said, grinning from ear
to ear.
So it went. Nowe was captured and stopped from hurting Nodda.
You can still hear Nowe howl from video games asking you to challenge
him. You have to watch that Nowe. He'll try and beat you at every tum.

Celebration

I
I
I

I
I
I
I
110

l

Susan M. Beaver

jeff low is a fag
jeff low
jeff low is a fag
jeff low is
a fag
jeff low is
jeff low is a fag
what does
jeff low is a fag
mean and who wrote it and why
in an alley
on the back of the 7-11?
on one brown cinder block
jeff low is a fag
not on a bus shelter or side walk
but an alley
hidden
cowardly
if i circle the building
from behind
i will hear
jeff low is a fag
words like injured eagles
whisper
and fall cold on that brown wall
don't they?
did graffiti joe
or Jane
want jeff low to hurt?
did they believe they had disclosed
pried
from the way he walked or talked or cared
or thought
these midnight-hunter words
jeff low is a fag
did joe or jane think
113

T
Susan M. Beaver

that people who walk this alley
will deliver jeff low into the shadow of death?
did they imagine young couples who read this
will laugh and point and say
jeff low is a fag?
will jeff low's friends see it
and refuse to speak to him
sit with him or love him?
will jeff low read it?
suddenly he is my little brother
and there are things
rainbow things
queer-bashing things
truthful things
i want to tell him
then i wonder
is jeff low a fag?
what if he is
and he wrote it?
maybe he did write it
small at first (in
contained
precise letters)
practiced
dipped and dipped a safety pin from cheap ink
to his skin and back again
tattooed
his dharma
on the inside of his left thigh
JEFF LOW IS A FAG
maybe he's sitting in his bedroom
right now
screaming in his head
jeff low is a fag
jeff low is a fag
jeff low is a fag
jeff low is a fag
sixteen years old and afraid
114

I

Susan M. Beaver

to come out
of his room
because jeff low is a fag
maybe he's crying into his pillow
barely able to draw breath
snot and tears choking him
and still he's whispering
jeff low is a fag
afraid his father will find him
throw him out for crying
afraid he'll lose his brothers
afraid
he's lost his manhood
afraid
jeff low is a fag
please god
kill me
but maybe no god listens to crying fags
in the middle of the day or night
so jeff low gets up the next morning
and goes to school
knowing, only him, knowing
that jeff low is a fag
and his face will be placid
like a windless lake
waiting, aching, to be broken
in the morning light
walking to school
walking
jeff low realizes his horizon is on fire
his sun
is begging
to rise
and the only way his day will break
is if he slyly writes his secret sacred words
on the brown wall
jeff low is a fag
maybe jeff low is the fag who wrote
115

Jeffery Mantia
Susan M. Beaver

jeff low is a fag
maybe he wrote after
cruising the beach
teasing a man
tugging him along
until they were alone
kissing and sucking
behind the 7-11
maybe the stranger did up his pants
looked at jeff low once
and walked away
left jeff low standing there
with a secret he smiles to himself to keep
his peacock back arched
creaking leather jacket
slung low on his shoulders
fishnet stockings under his blue jeans
hand on his hip
lips licked
head back
smug
even a little superior
as he proclaims
jeff low is a fag

Drum Dance
People are gathering
in a festival of fun
Faces smile, laughs begun
A circle has formed
from a beat, that's sung
Everyone's happy
Everything's right on
No hard feelings
Just dancing all night long
Children playing, elders chanting
The sun has fallen, the moon is shining
The cool air arrives
Everyone's dancing
Don't care what they say
I'm going to stomp my feet
Going to sweat all night
'Cause, the beat of the drum
Says, "Dance Tonite"

i hope
i return to the alley
where jeff low is a fag
four nights later
take out a permanent black magic marker
and next to jeff low is a fag
i write
thank god

116

117

Mickie Poirier

Annette Arkeketa-Rendon

Excerpt from Letter

medicine-n-magic

I'm discovering that I fill more with anger than humour: - I didn't realize
how hard and how long I've been fighting the modem world's persistent and
distracting insistence on the material, the superficial appearance of spiritual, - that talk without walking, or even feeling, - like hiding gangrene with
make-up and lipstick while attacking the medicine that would help it heal.

at the end of the earth
medicine sat in her office
wishing she were home, close
to her people
laughing easily

I realize now how very sacred is the clown who provides a path for the force
of my anger to go towards persistence and survival.Without this, my anger
would tum to poison, I'm sure

"it's wild onion season"
she thought
boiled meat, posole,
commodity cheese, canned peaches
fry bread ... simple stuff,
she never dreamed she
would miss

May you laugh 'til you dance and dance 'til you laugh!

the previous night
she had finished reading
a story written by one of
her peers,
funny sad
fortunately she didn't grow
up in an alcohol infested home
like the writer reported
mom always said
"anyone can drink themselves
to death ... doesn't matter what
race they belong to ... wasting talent
time ...
it's the smart ones who
rise and meet the demands
of their spirit
they are the ones
we can all be proud of..."
mom also cautioned medicine
about gossip and vulgar language
118

119

Annette Arkeketa-Rendon

Annette Arkeketa-Rendon

"don't mentally retard yourself
with bad words" she would say
her mother didn't necessarily
sit down and say those things
all at once, they came in pieces
of events, comments made while
medicine was still nesting
not knowing she would one day
be sitting at the rim of
the gulf of mexico, blending
those words together. wisdom
to help her as she looked
for magic
magic shook her hand one day
it was that simple, only magic
didn't tell her he was magic
he disguised himself with
common words. they were working
on a project together
magic reserved his laugh
for what was truly funny
his smile
for what was truly true
only he tripped one day
asking medicine a stereotyped
question about indians, medicine
had grown weary of such
questions, especially that day,
the week before her moon was
particularly hazardous for
foolish inquiry
magic in his smugness, chortled
his half-wit question
120

innocently
medicine seized
the words, chewed them
thoroughly
spat them back like
chipped flint
knocking magic
on his
buns
he got up
shook the flint
dust off
waited for
the mood to settle
then took cover
medicine felt bad, for taking
advantage of the situation
in pre-moon cycle, striking
where she knew she had no
challenge. she had been warned
many times during her life
not to use her medicine on the
weak and easy, "the ones that
have no defense, they're the ones
you should help and be kind to ..."
the worst part was
she had no time to explain
the attack
and lessons magic should
have carried off
with him
that was the worst
there was nothing
gained

121

Annette Arkeketa-Rendon

Susan M. Beaver

medicine wore this cheap victory
around her heart, ashamed, she
had to make amends

banned in canada

magic, keeping his distance
but always respectful
was afraid of her
one day, the project needed
attention, medicine needed help
she would ask magic, she
asked him for support in helping
her, magic afraid to say yes,
said "yes," but was thinking
"oh no!"
the project prospered, and all
were amazed at magic and
medicine, then one day, medicine
recognized magic
the south sea sun melted away
the common words
as he spoke
he was no longer afraid of her
but had grown afraid for himself
that he would lose her
she promised he would never
lose her and the sky gasped
periwinkle hues
medicine became magic
and magic became medicine
the spirits rose, huffing
zipping, puffing, zagging
singing, and finally settling
over the salty wet earth
with a great
sigh
122

f

is (an attempt a
wound) a stab:
the word is out
loud on the town
can't shut it up or
shut it down
repression is just some noun
and resistance
a word
unless you speak
the language of the land
cause the word is out
and my breath is hot
on the future's ear
and my finger's fast
on the past's clitoris
immoral sex acts
performed here:
listening to the past
speaking to the future
woman to woman

(

gathering (words spoken
prayers offered
breath mingled
laughter rolled in the air
laughter was banned
the band was banned
but the Nation rolls on
ceremonies still breathe
and the word still spoken)
was banned
rocks don't break
waves do
rocks don't break
waves do
resistance is a rock
worn smooth
like turtle's back
123

Ken Gervais
Ken Gervais

Art
"~i," she said timidly. She was a young Native woman, thin, glasses,
holes m her faded jeans. "You have a basement suite for rent?"
We'd remodelled our basement after our son moved out. The basement
was just collecting junk anyway. We thought we could make some extra
income and possibly help some student. We live three blocks from the
Community College. The guys at work with suites had warned me not to
rent to a single young female. "You'll have guys coming and going all times
of the day and night. And parties and loud music to drive you insane. You'll
think you're in an asylum. Or wish you were."
My first impulse was to say no. But she looked like a quiet person,
mousy, someone who read a lot. And there was something vulnerable about
~er l~~ge brown eyes, and fade~ clothes that clouded my better judgement.
Yes, I heard myself say, lookmg out to see what kind of car she was driving. She'd walked. "Would you like to see it?" I asked with a friendly
smile.
"Please," she smiled bravely.
I took her downstairs, and soon as she saw the suite she asked "How
muc h?"
. H er back was to me, but I'll bet her eyes were closed and 'fingers
crossed, because she appeared to be cringing. I wondered how many times
she had been turned down. "Ten thousand dollars a month if you 're a party
person," I said smiling. "Three hundred dollars if you're not."
"I'm not," she said turning quickly, with a beautiful smile. I was in trouble. I was supposed to rent the suite for four hundred dollars. How would I
explain this to my wife? Oh well, we had intended to help some
student, dido 't we?
"There will be me and my boyfriend and we both go to school and both
work," she said digging in her purse. "We have no time or money to party."
"Okay," I said, extending my hand.
My wife and I were having supper when the young lady returned for the
key. l,'d told my wife I had rented the suite to a couple of poor kids, and she
wasn t too happy about the rent I'd charged, being a hundred dollars less
than what she'd agreed on. When she saw the young Indian couple with their
battered suitcases, she turned and went angrily back to the dining room.
"Are you crazy?" she hissed when I returned. "Young Indians? Have you
completely lost your senses?" "They're just kids," I said lamely, her total
lack of confidence magnified my own misgivings tenfold. These kids
124

t

l,
•

ll

couldn't have been long off the reserve; the city could very easily make
them crazy.
"They're going to drink and party, and, burn our house down when
we're sleeping." She was seething, but she still had presence of mind to keep
her voice down .
"They're both going to school," I said, not looking at her. "Did you get
a damage deposit?" She whispered acidly. Damage deposit? I was new to
this landlord business. It had never even occurred to me. I shook my head;
my wife jumped up and said very coldly, "I am getting very angry now, and
want to be alone." She stormed into the bedroom. She was using her anger
management technique. I hate when she uses it; chosen words not meant to
attack or blame for her anger. But I always know I am the reason, and it
never fails to make me feel like a big, clumsy fool. Someday I am going to
tell her, her techniques really suck. I could hear things banging around in the
bedroom; probably my things. Someday I will tell her, I thought determinedly, but not today.
We had never in our lives met a quieter, more eager to please couple
than them Indian kids. They were not party people. They went to school all
week and worked nights and week-ends. Any time they had off, they stayed
downstairs doing what young couples who are apart most of the time do
when they get together. At least so I thought. The first time I went down to
collect rent, I learned different. They were kind of reluctant to let me in and
I know why when I see the table they're using is not the one we'd bought
from the second hand store. Ours had four legs. The one they were using had
metal or something wrapped around a third of it all the way to the floor. It
looked like a huge, flat topped bill-cap with ear muffs. The front was supported by one big, stove pipe of a leg. They'd shined up the chrome and
painted the table and metal wrap, blue and white. It looked like something
out of Star Trek, especially in that suite of second-hand store furniture. But
it was young, like them: full of life ... daring to be different, and bold. The
blue and white, the shiny chrome was beautiful. They'd mixed the paint so
the top appeared to have depth, with different shades at each level.
"Where's my table?" I asked, looking around the room.
"Right there," they both said, pointing at the modified blue and white
creation, then looked at one another and giggled nervously. "If you don't
like it we'll pay you for it when we leave, and take it with us." The girl said
apologetically.
"No, no, no." I said, "It looks fine. I like it."
125

Ken Gervais

I went back upstairs chuckling, and said to the wife. "You should see
what them kids did to our table and chairs. It's amazing. They must be
artists."
"They're not artists fool," my wife said with a superior air; not even
bothering to lift her head up from her crocheting.
"She's studying to be a dental assistant, and he's working at appliance
repair."
"How do you know that?" I asked, "I thought you were afraid of them."
"Afraid?" She said. Now she looked up, and even had the nerve to sound
incredulous. "They're just kids."
I shook my head at her audacity, and said: "Well, it's still amazing. That
old table set looks a lot happier now then it did when we brought it home.
When did you talk to them?"
"She comes up, and uses our phone sometimes."
Several weeks later I was out working in my garden, and the young man
was adjusting the brake cables on his bike preparing to go to work when his
girl friend came walking home from her job. She went immediately over to
her boy friend to show him a small painting she was carrying. "Got this at a
garage sale down the street: pretty, huh?" She said smugly.
He glanced up at it uninterestedly, and said "If you say so."
"How much did you pay?" He asked again, and I was beginning to feel
embarrassed for her.
"Not much," she said gaily, studying the picture. She held it out to me
and said "Nice eh?"
I nodded and smiled, "At least you can tell what it is without going
cross-eyed."
She turned back to her boyfriend, and seeing his serious expression said,
"Oh, five bucks, you skinflint. Is that too much?" He didn't answer, but kept
his head down and smiled as he worked on his bike. His girlfriend went
angrily into the house and he made an impudent smile at her back for me
to see.
The next time I go down, I see they have the fridge apart and are sanding the pieces. The second-hand fridge was a lot more expensive than the
table and chairs, but I'm not too concerned; my wife did say the guy was
studying appliance repair. And if they do a job like they did on the table and
chairs, hell, I was way ahead.
"They got the fridge apart," I said to my wife with a chuckle when I got
back upstairs.
"Yah, I know," she said matter-of-factly. "They dropped the door when
126

Ken Gervais

they took it off. .. made a hell of a racket. I thought they were drunk and
fighting, so I went down there to see what they were doing. They're going
to paint it silver." She said it like she didn't really approve, but was powerless to stop them. Lord knows what they would tum into if provoked.
"Silver!" I said surprised.
"Silver," she said with a hint of frustration. "She gets a deal on paint
where she works, and they don't paint with brushes." I raised my eyebrows
questioningly.
"They use rags, sponges, Saran Wrap and God knows what all. I think
you should have a talk with them."
"Well, if that's how they painted the table, I'm sure the fridge will look
okay," I said with an effort to sound positive. "I can always paint it over."
My wife stared sternly at me over the top of her glasses while her fingers continued to rapidly crochet with eyes of their own. "They're probably
lonely," I said with an evasive shrug, "and are trying to bring something of
their home here."
"You'll stop them if they start to carve the house supports into totem
poles eh?" She said cynically.
Two weeks later my wife phones me at work and tells me the young guy
downstairs was in an accident and was in the hospital. My first thought
when my wife said accident was, 'Oh no, my fridge is still all apart.' To this
day, that remembrance brings me pain, and I try to jus_tify the miserly, sel~centred thought by telling myself over and over that I did not know how senous the boy was.
That night we waited for the young woman to come home, and when
she walked into the yard; I tell you solemnly, I have never in my life seen
such a sad sight. From the top of her head to the soles of her shoes, everything was drooping. I never realized just how small and thin she was till that
moment. She was crying. The wife and I go out to meet her, and I was feeling sorrier at that moment than I had ever felt before. These kids had nothing but each other. My wife was crying too as we practically carried the
young lady into the house.
The young man hung on for three weeks. After he died the young lady
came up and said very bravely. "I'll be leaving at the end of the month."
"You can stay as long as you want." My wife said, surprising me. "You don't
have to pay the rent if you can't afford it."
"Thank you," the young lady said sadly, "But I can't stay here alone."
She looked up at me with pain filled eyes, then away. "We meant it about
127

MarUo Moore

Ken Gervais

the rent." I said sympathetically, her agony making my voice soft.
"Thank you," she said again, her face twisting with emotion, "You're
very kind, but I can't."
"Okay," I said. "But you stay just as long as you like."
She left the same way she'd come, Kathrina Stonebreaker, walking, carrying two old suitcases, in faded ripped clothes. My wife and I heart broken,
watched her go, wishing fervently there was something we could do. "She
slept on the floor beside the old fridge and her boyfriend's tools," my wife
said sorrowfully, wiping her eyes. "She wouldn't sleep in the bed." I put an
arm around her to console. Kathrina stopped and looked back, but not at us,
at the windows of the basement suite. Then she turned, and walked out of
our lives forever.
It was several days before I had reason to go downstairs. And when I did
go, I was given quite a shock. The part of the fridge that wasn't shiny, tin
foil silver, was swirls of deep, dark, midnight black. Like clouds of forbidding pain the swirls grew blacker and blacker, coming up from the bottom
threatening to overrun the bright silver. Whirling, out of control darkness, a
maelstrom of hopelessness, dejection, anger and mourning.
Like unbearable suffering completely exposed, the fridge though
strangely appealing, was hard for me to look at; something divine, yet terrible.
They say art develops normally according to the laws of nature, and
must respond to human needs, or humans response to it. Everyone who sees
the fridge, and the space-age table and chairs smiles favourably, and must
comment on them. I have yet to hear one bad word. One student said I had
a miniature art gallery for a suite. Whenever I hear the word 'Art,' I see a
thin, young lady, their room, their joy and her sadness, intertwined in an old
second-hand store fridge.

128

DAY OF SUN
(In memory of Simone "Loon Song" Hom)
We in a circle
honouring memory
mourning passing
praying silence ...
She laughs at us
this Sunday for being so sad.
Laughs through Spirit
I am here! Can't you see me?
Can't you hear me? Can't you feel me?
Singing through the trees
dancing through the drums.
I am here!
As always
only now free as
you shall all be one day
free to laugh through Spirit
sing through crows
talk through trees
and dance through drums.
We in a circle
laughing singing talking dancing
together or always
together or all ways.

129

T
Gatherings VI/I

Biographies
Annette Arkeketa: Annette (Otoe-Creek) grew up around Tulsa, Oklahoma. She
has been published in numerous anthologies, including Gatherings VII. Annette
currently lives in Corpus Christi, Texas.
Jeannette Armstrong: Jeannette is a member of the Penticton Indian Band·
Okanagan Nation. She teaches Okanagan Studies and Okanagan Language. She i~
also the Director of the En'owkin International School of Writing.
Marie Annharte Baker: Band# N42-Little Saskatchewan First Nations, now twice
the granny, moved to Vancouver to go to Simon Fraser University to take up art
Ed~cat~on, plus do ~OC TALK, "we mock the'h talk to walk the talk" on Co-op
rad10, l_1terary art cnt segment, but part time day job is teaching English at Native
Educat10n Centre a.k.a. "Forrest's mother" and by the way, Anishinabekwe.
Susan M. Beaver: Susan is Mohawk from Six Nations of the Grand River Territory
and a_ member of the wolf clan. She's published sporadically, here and there, but
has big plans. She says ny:weh to all the Indigenous writers that have gone before
her.
Don Birchfield:_ Do~ is a member of the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma, and a graduate of the ~m~e~s1ty of Oklahoma College of Law. His 10,000 word essay,
Choctaw Nat10n 1s m the 1995 GALE Encyclopedia of Multicultural America.
Kimberly Blaeser: Kimberly (Anishinaabe) currently an Associate Professor of
English at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, is an enrolled member of the
Minnesota Chippewa Tribe and grew up on White Earth Reservation in northwestern Minnesota. Her publications include Trailing You, which won the Diane
Decorah First Book Award for poetry from the Native Writer's Circle of the
Americ~s, an~ Gerald Vizenor: Writing in the Oral Tradition, a critical study.
Blaeser s fict10n, poetry, personal essays, and scholarly articles have also been
anthologized in numerous Canadian and American collections including: Earth
Song, Sky Spirit, The Colour of Resistance, Women on Hunting, Returning the Gift,
Blue Dawn, Red Earth, Dreaming History, Durable Breath, Narrative Chance
Unsettling America, and Reinventing the Enemy's Language.
'
Trevor Cameron: Trevor is a Metis who calls Vancouver his home. He is an independant filmmaker and writer with a certificate of reccomendation in film making
from the Vancouver Film School. Trevor is a former student of the En'owkin
International School of Writing.
Bill Cohen: Bill is an Okanagan artist and teacher who lives in Penticton, BC.,
where he teaches at the En'owkin Centre.

130

Gatherings V/11

Crystal Lee Clark: Crystal was born in Fort McMurray, AB, on December 7, 1974.
She has many bloods from Sonny and Gail. Crystal loves Art and is proud to be a
part of the En'owkin Centre where a lot of really cool people are.
Sherida Crane: Sherida is from Siksika, Alberta, Blackfoot Nation. Sherida is a
former student of the En'owkin International School of Writing.
Jack D. Forbes: Jack Forbes is professor and former chair of Native American
Studies at the University of California at Davis, where he has served since 1969. He
is of Powhatan/Renape, Delaware/Lenape ancestry. He received his Ph.D from the
University of Southern California in 1959. Forbes was born at Bahia de los
Alamitos in Suanga (Long Beach) California in 1934. Professor Forbes has served
as a Visiting Fulbright Professor at the University of Warwick, England, as the
Tinbergen Chair at the Erasmus University of Rotterdam, as a Visiting Scholar at
the Institute of Social Anthropology of Oxford University, and as a Visiting
Professor in Literature at the University of Essex, England. His latest book Red
Blood has been published by Theytus Books.
Barb Frazer: Barb is from Pilot Bute, Saskatchewan and is a former student of
En'owkin International School of Writing. She is currently attending the Centre for
Indigenous Environment Resources in Winnipeg, Manitoba.
William George: William is from the Tsleil-Waututh Nation (also known as
Burrard Indian Band) in North Vancouver, BC. He lives and writes in the Okanagan.
William has been published in Anthologies, Literary Magazines and Theytus Books
publications Gatherings Journal Volumes Ill, IV, V and VII.
Barbara- Helen Hill: Helen is from Six Nations, Grand River Territory, located in
Southern Ontario. She is a graduate of the En'owkin International School of
Writing. Helen is pursuing a BFA in Creative Writing.
Ines Hernandez-Avila: I am Nez Perce on my mom's side, enrolled on the Colville
Reservation in Washington state, and Chicana/Mexican Indian on my dad's side. I
write poetry, fiction (often using both English and Spanish), and I teach a class
called Native American Literature in Performance, where my students and I select
pieces by Native writers to adapt to stage, and then produce the performances on
our campus. I am the Chair of the Department of Native American studies at the
University of California, Davis. My scholarly fields of interest include Native
American women's literature, Native American religious traditions, Native
American and Chicana cultural studies Native American and Chicana feminisms.
Joyce B. Joe: Joyce was born in Victoria, BC, in 1948. She is a member of the
Penelakut Tribe and was born into the hereditary Chiefs' families of the Thomas's
(father) and the Johnsons (mother) at Ditidaht, BC. Joyce writes poetry, scripts and
131

Gatherings Vlll

Gatherings VI/I

prose. She is currently instructing Creative Writing at the En'owkin International
School of Writing. Her latest publication is an anthology entitled West Coast Line
Magazine and includes an excerpt from her 29 Line Poems collections. Her full
length play Ravens was produced by Native Earth (Toronto) in 1996.

amusing stories and still try to deal with survival. I don't believe that everything has
to be full of solemnity while making observations on life. Not everyone can or
needs to make a profound statement. Others can make genuine observations of life
whether they are young or old or just trying to be entertaining.

Sandra Lynn Lynxleg: Sandra presently lives in Merritt, BC. She is of Saulteaux,
Irish, Scottish, and English ancestry. She is from the Valley River First Nations in
Manitoba. She is 36 years old, married for 14 years, and is a mother of three children. Sandra presently works at an Aboriginal college (Nicola Valley Institute of
Technology in Merritt, BC). She began writing five years ago and discovered her
talent for writing from many mentors (family, NVIT, NITEP, IASO). Sandra was
selected as an IASO participant in the 1996 B.C. Festival of the Arts, in Powell
River, BC.

M.C. Poirier: Mickie Poirier is a self-taught artist, and been painting since 1987,
using what she has learned in photography, emcology, botany and ornithology to
enhance her art. Mickie is an Algonquin Metis from Maniwake, Quebec, born
December 16, 1947. Mickie is of the Native Alliance, Kitchener, Ontario.

Sarah D. Lyons: Sarah is a mixed blood of Isletan, Pueblo descent. A political
activist, she has helped to build America's emergent movement towards the establishment of an inclusive, democracy based, major third party. She currently lives in
Brooklyn, New York and works as a word processor at a law firm.
Jeffrey Mantia: I am 19 years old and a grade 12 student attending Chief Jimmy
Bruneau High School. I have written many songs, stories and poems. Poetry is my
main passion since I first picked up a pen. I was born in Yellowknife, NWT. I lived
in a small town called Wha-Ti with a population of 500. I travelled to different
places and wrote about everyday occurrences that stumble into my life. I would like
to dedicate these writings to my family and friends.
MariJo Moore: MariJo is an Eastern Cherokee and resides in Asheville, NC.
MariJo is a staff writer for Indian Artist magazine and free-lancer for publications
including National Geographic, Pembroke Magazine, North Carolina Literary
Review, and Native Women in the Arts. She is the author of Returning to the
Homeland-Cherokee Poetry and Short Stories, Crow Quotes, Stars Are Birds and
Other Writings, and Spirit Voices of Bones.
Jacqueline Oker: Jacqueline is a Beaver Indian from the Doig River Reserve.
(Doig is located 40 miles from Fort St. John, BC). Jackie is a former Creative
Writing student at the En'owkin Centre in Penticton, BC, and is in the process of
writing a book of poems. She is a mother of two children and is currently in her
third year of Social work with University of Victoria.
Stephen Pranteau: I was born in Grand Rapids, Manitoba. My first language is
Cree. Cree allows people to be lively and boisterous without being obnoxious.
People can poke fun at each other without any disrespect. I learned about humour
from original and very funny story tellers. It was impossible not to laugh even during solemn occasions such as funerals. It is because of them that I try to write some
132

Sharron Proulx-Turner: Sharron is from Calgary, Alberta, and is a member of the
Metis Nation of Alberta (Mohawk, Huron, Algonquin, Ojibwa, French and Irish
ancestors). She is currently awaiting publication of her second book, which is a
book of poetry, she is reading her blanket with her hands.
Bindi Ritchie: Bindi is a member of the Katzie Indian Band from the Fraser Valley
of BC. She is working toward an Associate of Arts Degree from the Okanagan
University College. As well, Bindi is currently a student at the En'owkin
International School of Writing.
Anna Marie Sewell: Anna is a halfbreed who wanders the world saying, "wow,
cool." And then she marvels that serious people look at her askance. She feels a
deep, nigh-totemic affinity for bannock, dandelions and her black seventies ashtray
with the roaring panther, 'flash', on it. She lives in a basement, with flash and other
friends, and invents oatmeal recipes with regularity.
Drew Hayden Taylor: Drew has been called one of Canada's leading Native
Dramatists. his comedy The Bootlegger Blues won the Canadian Authors Award for
Drama and his most recent play Only Drunks and Children Tell the Truth earned
him a Dora Award for most outstanding new play in 1995. His plays have been
produced in Canada, the U.S. and Europe. In addition to writing for stage and
screen, Taylor has contributed essays and commentaries to the Globe & Mail, The
Toronto Star and This Magazine. He is currently writing a television movie for
CBC. Taylor is an Ojibway from the Curve Lake Reserve in Ontario - even if he
doesn't look like it.
Vera Wabegijig: Vera is from Blind River, Ontario and is currently a student at the
En'owkin International School of Writing.
Sabrina Whane: I am 16 years old. I like to be with my friends.
Other Contributors:
Linda George
Ken Gervais

Leanne Flett-Kruger
Gail Duiker

133