~

.· ..,,
~

....... . ,.,

. . .. . - .. -...

Gatherings VII
; ··-·--

i ;

'

. . ·-·-i

I

__ .,_ I
' '
, I '
I

; 1
'

i

i

· r·-1: ~. , ~- ~:J91 ·,.:. ;

Standin'g ·Ground j
·-··-~--,~-- ., '---------~-:.!
Strength and Solidarity
Amidst Dissolving Boundaries

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

Gatherings
The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples
Volume VII - 1996

Published annually by Theytus Books Ltd. and the En'owkin
Centre for the En'owkin International School of Writing.
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Gatherings
Annual
ISSN 1180-0666
ISBN 0-919441-83-1
1. 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
IL En'owkin Centre.
PS8235 C810.8'0897
CS90-31483-7
Managing Editors:
Page Composition:
Cover Design:
Cover Art:

Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm and
Jeannette Armstrong
Regina (Chick) Gabriel,
Linda Armstrong, William George
Jeannette Armstrong
Teresa Marshall

Speech to Unrepresented Nations and Peoples Organizations -Jan./995 by Dr. Arvo/
Looking Horse was first published by the Turtle Island News, April /995.

Please send submissions and letters to Gatherings, clo En'owkin Centre, 257
Brunswick Street, Penticton, BC, V2A 5P9, Canada. All submissions must be
accompanied by a self-addressed envelope (SASE). Manuscripts without
SAS Es may not be returned. We will not consider previously published manuscripts or visual art.
Copyright remains with the artist and/or author. No portion of this journal may
be reproduced in any form whatsoever without written permission from the
author and/or artist.
Typeset by Theytus Books Ltd. Printed and bound in Canada.
Copyright 1996 for the authors.
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.

TABLE OF CONTENTS
EDITORIAL

ABOUT FACE

Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm

this is where we stand our ground

OPENING ADDRESS

Dr. Arvol Looking Horse

Speech to Unrepresented Nations and
Peoples Organizations Jan. ·95

5

STANDING GROUND - RIGHTS

Marlowe Sam
Leonard Martin
Jack Forbes
Dorothy Christian
Aztatl (Jose L. Garza)

1

l

lI
I

II
!
I

!

J

Sitting On Mother Earth
Teresa Marshall
Kimberly Blaeser
A.A. Hedge Coke
William George

Taking on the War Today
"You With The Gun"

Prose
Prose

11
14

The Whales Are Glad They're Not Indians

Poetry
Poetry
Bloodlines
Southwest Journal:
Medicines Eagle's Gathering Prose
Poetry
School
Poetry
Brown Eyed Divas
Prose Poetry
Meeting Place
Prose
Digs (excerpt)
Highway Through Community Poetry

19

20
21
26
27
31
33
46

STANDING GROUND - LAND

Poetry
Poetry
Prose
Poetry
Poetry
Poetry
Poetry

Rasunah Marsden
Debbie McHalsie
Stephen Pranteau
Randy Lundy

Valley of the Believers
Untitled
The Tea Party
dark forest
this sadness
hanging bones
stone gathering

Richard Van Camp

the uranium leaking from port radium
and ray rock mines is killing us. Prose

Karen Coutlee
Lois Red Elk
Travis Hedge Coke
Melvina B. Mack

Our Ancestor's Are Restless
Grass Dancing
Ramrod Standing
B.C.C.W. dispos.able

Poetry
Poetry
Poetry
Poetry

49
50
51
60
61
62
63
64
66
70
71
73

STANDING GROUND - FAMILY

MariJo Moore
Mahara Allbrett
Jack Forbes
David Groulx
Lenore Keeshig-Tobias
Kimberly Blaeser
Stolly Collison
Pansy Collison
E.K. Caldwell

Poetry
Prose
Poetry
Poetry
Prose
Poetry
Prose Poetry
Prose/Picto
The Greatest Mentor in My Life Prose
Poetry
Sister Prays For the Children
Solidarity in the Night
Untitled
Revolutionary Genealogy
Penemue and the Indians
Letter Excerpt
The Minotaur
Studies in Migration
My Mom

77
78
79
85
86
87
89
90
91
97

Barbara-Helen Hill
Sharron Proulx-Turner
Annette Arkeketa
Henry Michel
Joanne Amott
Louisa Mianscum
Brenda Prince
Crystal Lee Clark
Shoshona Kish

Poetry
collective consciousness
gigue the jig the six-huit stitch Poetry
Poetry
the terms of a sister
Finding The Inner Edges of Life Poetry
Birth
Poetry
Grandmother/sweat lodge
Poetry
Prose
Letter Excerpt
To Grandmother's House I Go Poetry
Poetry
Untitled
Poetry
Untitled

100
101
106
107
109
112
113
114
115
117

Chandra Winnipeg
Annette Arkeketa
Mickie Poirier
William George
Lillian Sam
Armand Gamet Ruffo
Joanne Amott
Faith Stonechild
Greg Young-Ing

Mixed Media 121
Who am i?
122
Who am i?
Prose
123
Innateness OF Being
Poetry
124
native hum
Poetry
126
Letter exerpt
Prose
127
Cave Adventures
Prose
130
Changing Times
Poetry
133
Portrait of A Heathen ConsideredPoetry
134
Remember
Poetry
135
Untitled
Prose
137
I Didn't Ask
Poetry

Michelle Good
Brenda Prince
Lois Red Elk

Poetry
Cherokee Invocation
Prose
Untitled
Sally Stands Straight Stands
Her Ground Shocks the SalesiansPoetry
Sally Stands Straight Scolds
Poetry
the Dominicans
Poetry
Ancient Songs
Poetry
Stone People
Prose
Stars
Prose Poetry
Our Blood Remembers

141
142
143
145
146
147
149
150

STANDING GROUND - LANGUAGE

Raven Hail
Lee Alphonse
Gerry William
Lois Red Elk
Jack Forbes
E.K. Caldwell

Indian Talk: Are You Listening? Prose
Our Language
Poetry
This Page
Poetry
Native Literary World Views:
A Personal Essay
Prose
Indian Names
Prose
Indios for 500 Years
BUT NO MORE
Poetry
Thoughts Right Before Sleep Poetry

153
156
156
157
164

167
171

STANDING GROUND - INTERNATIONAL INDIGENOUS VOICES

Haunani-Kay Trask

Gods of My Ancestors
Nostalgia: VJ-Day

Margaret Brusnahan

Michael Fitz Jagamarra
Margarita Gutierrez

Poetry
Poetry

177
178

180
182
183
184
185
202
207
208
209
210
211
213
214
215
216
217

up up up stay standing up
the ground is sacred

223

8ACKWORD - EDITORIAL

Jeannette Armstrong

BIOGRAPHIES

STANDING GROUND - SPIRITUALITY

Raven Hail
Mahara Allbrett
Dawn Karima Pettigrew

Patricia Grace
Paora Ropata
Alf Taylor

Kenny Williams
Rosemary Plummer

STANDING GROUND - IDENTITY

Thomas Edwards

Moana Sinclair

The Broken Gourd
Poetry
Ruins
Poetry
Letter Excerpt
Prose
The Brothers
Poetry
Ngati Kangaru
Prose
The Brother on the Bridge Oral/Prose
Forty Thousand years Ago Poetry
Dreamtime Stories
Poetry
Lawful Kidnapping
Poetry
Forgotten
Poetry
Citizenship
Poetry
Tribal Woman
Poetry
Warumungu Tribe
Poetry
My Mother Told Me a Story Poetry
Culture Express
Poetry
Excerpt - Witness Testimony Oratorial

Editorial

227

ABOUT FACE

Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm

this is where we stand our ground
Gatherings. a gathering place. a gathering of nations.
and this page is my place. our meeting place. you, me, and the
landscape upon which these words are written. on this page i
assert myself with words like bones sinking deep into the earth.
into earth memory. this page is my ground. my turtle island.
where the bones of words are inside me too. and i am rooted to
this place. to the land. singing my words over this landscape.
playing this song like music from a bone flute passed from generation to generation. this voice is mine. and yet through me my
ancestors speak and sing and are given voice. their thoughts flow
through me. there is strength in this voice that is mine and theirs.
and around me other voices call out. singing and laughing and
crying. telling stories, speaking poetry, asserting themselves.
calling out and answering. calling and listening and answering
just as i do. and between us a song forms, an ancient song. a song
of the people of the land. a calling and listening and responding.
a uniting and blending. a harmony of voices.
singers of songs. indigenous writers. orators. bone carvers. gathering. standing ground at this place. this gathering of nations.
indigenous writers. we gather together on this meeting ground.
this burial ground that holds bones of thought. this living ground
that is ancient and sacred and new, like a song sung by each generation. like the landscape of grandmothers. like the spiritual
place that is inside each of us. where our ancestors' thoughts are.
and writing roots us to this place, to the trees, to the land, to each
other. all is connected.
indigenous writers. this is the ground upon which we stand. we
know this ground and this ground knows us. she recognizes our
ancestors in us. she knows our genealogy. we carry this knowing.
and so we will not be moved. we will not be muted. even if our

Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm

stories are ignored. our tongues ripped from our throats. our poetry ridiculed. our mouths slapped. we will not be moved. no matter how many times the maps are changed, the borders shifted,
the lines drawn. we will not be moved.
indigenous writers. this is the ground upon which we stand. this
is the motherland. the gathering place. the place for remembering, for singing, for telling stories, for honouring the bones of our
ancestors. this is why we stand firm. why we will not be moved.
why our writing is resistance. and protest. Ipperwash, Gustafsen
Lake, Wanganui, Kahnesatake, Wounded Knee, Chiapas
Restigouche, Hawai'i Nei, Green Mountain Road,
Neyaashiinigmiing... the Black Hills, Uluru, Halawa Valley,
Nochemowenaing ... our sacred places, our homelands, our memories are in our words.
indigenous writers. every mark on every page is a foot firmly
planted. every story, every poem, every word given breath, is eternal. imprinted into eternity. like fossil in stone. like the moon in
the night sky: enduring.
indigenous writers. this our territory. this is indigenous land.
where our values, our ways of speaking, our oral traditions, our
languages, our philosophies, our concepts, our histories, our literary traditions, our aesthetics are expressed and accepted and
honoured each according to our nations. this is where we carve
stories into the memories of our people. we sing songs our children will remember. it is to them we speak. it is for them we sing.
mee iwih. mee minik.
these are our stories, our songs, our words, spoken in our voices,
in our ways, for our people.
we are standing ground. kawgigeh.
kawgigeh

2

OPENING ADDRESS

Dr. Arva! Looking Horse

Speech to the Unrepresented Nations and
Peoples Organizations
Hua Kola, my name is Arvol Looking Horse, my Lakota name is
Horse man. I humbly stand before you as Keeper of the Sacred
Pipe, which White Buffalo Calf Woman brought 19 generations
ago. Wakan Tanka, Great Spirit created everything upon Mother
Earth. Paha Sapa, the Sacred Black Hills in South Dakota is
where our spiritual power and identity flows, the heart of everything that is. Our stories tell us that our ancestor emerged from
the place we know now as Wind Cave. Many of our stories and
Star Knowledge informs our way of life.
After the Creation story a great race took place around the Sacred
Black Hills in an area called The Racetrack. The race was
between the two-legged and the four-legged. The two-legged won
the race. From that time on we used the Buffalo for ceremonies,
for food, shelter and clothing. Our First People were the pte oyate
(Buffalo People). The extinction of the Buffalo reflects the status
of the Lakota people.
The victimization our people have experienced at the hands of
government representatives over the last hundred years continues
to this day, and it must stop. A hundred years ago the government·
ordered the slaughter of sixty million Buffalo, this constituted our
main livelihood. The intention was to pacify and reduce our people to a state of dependence and poverty. Our Sacred Lands, the
heart of our Nation, was guaranteed with the signing of the 1851
Treaty. At this time the representatives from the White House had
the bible and our representatives had the Treaty Pipe. They
prayed over this land. Over a hundred years ago, that was our way
of life. We kept our word. Then, gold was discovered in our holy
land. A Lakota Standing Rock Delegate, Goose, made this statement regarding the events that took place.
General Custer and some soldiers came to me and asked
me if I was able to go and show them where I found this
gold ... I told them I could, so we started for the Black
5

Dr. Arvol Looking Horse

Dr. Arvol Looking Horse

Hills .... Soon after our return, General Custer started for
the Black Hills a second time, to keep the white prospectors out as the land belonged to the Indian .... Sometime
after, I and some others were called to council held at
Red Cloud Agency, Nebraska to confer with some commissioners that were sent out by the government to cede
the Black Hills to the United States.... We refused on the
ground that a majority of the Sioux were out on a hunting trip.
General George Custer tricked Goose into thinking they would
protect the land; instead Custer ended up paving the unexpectant
road for the white prospectors, abrograting the Fort Laramie
Treaty. The invading settlers defaced our Sacred Black Hills and
we have struggled for the return of our Holy Land to this day. Our
leaders have always fought to protect the land and the people.
Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull, two of the greatest Indigenous
leaders in American history, never signed treaty and never relinquished Aboriginal title to the land. Crazy Horse had the most
followers and he refused to Treaty. They were both politically
assassinated for their resistance to the U.S. subjugation.
However, their blood relatives a'"e alive and well today. They can
kill our leaders but their visions will never die.

Sacred remains which were perversely displayed for all
Americans to observe, further degrading our forefathers. It is
time to restore the dignity of our People and Nations.
The survivors were forced on to concentration camps, the U.S.
government called reservations. Our children were taken to
Christian run residential schools where they were physically,
emotionally, sexually and spiritually abused, severely punished if
they spoke their language or practised their traditions. Our ceremonies were outlawed. Our ceremonies were forced underground
for fear of persecution by the U.S. government until the 1978
Freedom of Religious Act. A country that was founded on the
principles of democracy and religious freedoms did so with the
blood and soul of my ancestors. The injustice continues. I am
here to see it stop. We must correct the historical wrongs. We
need your help to do this. Apartheid and genocide exist in
America and will continue to exist unless the world pressures the
U.S. to deal justly and honorably with the First Americans.
Today, with so few resources available, our people are at the
mercy of government officials. These same government officials
continue to take our sacred lands, livestock and horses. We have
no avenue for due process or legal recourse. We are not protected by the U.S. constitution. That is why I address you today, to
pursue our rights on behalf of the Sioux Nations. We are resilient
and spiritual people who know the time has come for prophesies
to emerge from sacred places.

General Custer and General Ulysses Grant were under orders to
"pacify" the "hostiles" using any means necessary. The United
States government waged a genocide campaign against my
ancestors. Our people endured unspeakable acts. One example of
how they dealt with the "Indian problem" was the Massacre at
Wounded Knee in 1890. Four hundred unarmed men, women and
children were slaughtered. At the time of arrival there were over
fifty million Native Americans. In 100 years they decimated our
populations to a mere million. Some tribes were slaughtered to
extinction. There were more "casualties" in the so-called "Indian
Wars" in a fifty year period than there was with WWI and WWII
combined. The holocaust of Native Americans has yet to be truthfully depicted. As I said, our status is similar to that of the
Buffalo. In fact, there are more of our ancestors remains in museums than there are living survivors. We seek to reclaim these

A prophecy which has great significance for us is the story of the
Great Flood which came to this sacred island long before the contact with Europeans. A flood was sent to purify Mother Earth and
our people were residing in an area we now call Pipestone,
Minnesota. This sacred stone represents the blood of our ancestors. It was sometime after the flood that the Sacred Pipe was
brought to our people by a spirit woman we now refer to as the
White Buffalo Calf Woman. She instructed our people in sacred
ceremonies and how to live in balance with all life. The bowl of
the pipe is made of the Inyansa (red stone of our mother) and it
also represents the female. The stem of the pipe is made of wood

6

7

Dr. Arva! Looking Horse

and represents the Tree of Life and the male. The Tree of Life
represents the root of our ancestors. As this Tree grows, so does
the spirit of the ancestors' people. The only time the pipe is put
together is when you are in prayer. After she had given these
instructions to our ancestors, she said she would return as a White
Buffalo Calf.
Our prophet Black Elk said the Nations Sacred Hoop was broken
at the Massacre of Wounded Knee in 1890. To begin mending the
hoop we have led a spiritual ride to wipe the Tears of the Seventh
Generation from 1986 to 1990. The Nations Hoop has begun to
heal and mend. The prophecy tells us the White Buffalo Calf will
return.
In August of 1994, a White Buffalo Female Calf was born. This
tells us it is time to take our rightful place in leading the people
towards Peace and Balance once again. We will be strong and the
people will heal. Our healing is global.
On June 21st of 1996 we will return to the Sacred Black Hills to
pray for world peace. We will pray for the return of our Holy
Land. We will pray for the two-legged, four-legged, and winged
ones, and for Mother Earth. We ask you to pray with us.
Indigenous Nations know our earth is suffering. Humanity is
heading towards total chaos and destruction - that is both a scientific and spiritual fact. The new millenium will make harmony
or the end of life as we know it. Starvation, war and toxic waste
have been the mark of the Great Myth of Progress and
Development. As caretakers of the heart of Mother Earth it is our
responsibility to tell our brothers and sisters to seek Peace. We
ask every Nation to declare June 21 World Peace and Prayer Day.
Pray at this time with us from your sacred areas, churches, temples, mosques. Pray for the Seventh Generation to have World
Peace and Harmony. This is the message I bring to you. May
Peace be with you all.
Mitakuye Oyasin.

8

RIGHTS

Marlowe Sam

TAKING ON THE WAR TODAY
We are in a time of war with those who destroy the environment, and threaten the existence of all living things. If we are to
take on this battle, our best defense is to be in a healthy strong
place emotionally, physically, and most of all, spiritually. When
these parts of our being are nurtured and cared for the collective
mind is able to resolve these situations. It is then instinct for survival overides the way we each think and act in our normal day
to day lives. Because of the hopeless way of thinking in this
modern era there needs to be a sense of hope to keep visions of a
good future alive in the minds of the people. Our children and the
earth are fully dependant on us to continue finding ways to slow
down the destructive processes in order to give our people and the
earth time to recover and heal.
To take on this war is to be warrior, however, because of the
modern technological world in which we live, the roles and duties
of the warrior have changed drastically in the past hundred years.
In this we must not only look at what we are doing but we must
also look at what we are not doing in upholding our responsibilities.
During the 70s many of us used alcohol and drugs and by
doing so, hurt our own resistance movement. It caused a lot of
division within our communities and turned some people against
what we were fighting for. In the 60s and 70s, there was an attitude in the movement that we should go out and face the bullets
and die, if necessary, to bring the injustices inflicted on our people to light. During this resistance era many of our people did lose
their lives. Hundreds of others were incarcerated in the state, federal, and provincial penal institutions of North America. Many
others were forced off their reservations into urban areas because
their lives were threatened.
Today, we can see how things might have been different if we
had been sober and clear thinking. Our intent had not been to hurt
our Nations but to get them to become aware that the government
was legislating our rights away and systematically committing
11

Marlowe Sam

Marlowe Sam

genocide against our people. I know now that a key to making a
positive change is to start with ourselves. For the most part that
means healing the inner spirit. When we accomplish this, then
and only then, do we start to have a positive impact within our
families, communities, and Nations.
I was at Kahnawake in 1990, when the army invaded
Tekakwitha Island, with four hundred soldiers, helicopters,
APCs, automatic weapons, razor wire, tear gas, and 50 calibre
machine guns. I felt true anger as I first walked up to the razor
wire and I wondered how they could be so racist and hateful as
to intrude, militarily into these peoples own territory. It was so
easy to get caught up in that rush of emotion, but I also can say
that not once did I feel despair within the people, if anything there
was a strong feeling of confidence, in themselves and each other.
So what I saw as their strength was the great courage in the collective determination of a people and, on that day, I wondered
how the white people had been able to put us in the position we
find ourselves today.
While in the camp of the Shuswap defenders at Gustafsen
Lake, I sat and listened to the talk about dying. I reminded them
that our people have resisted for generations upon generations,
and that the fight is for survival; it is not about dying. And yes,
sometimes our people have to make those sacrifices but to prepare for those acts and to be a warrior isn't an overnight decision.
Self sacrifice and spiritual awareness of our responsibilities to
one another, the land and all of creation, is the reason these things
are put in our minds and hearts. We don't throw away our lives
because we are frustrated and feel that we have been wronged. I
asked them to look and see the peace and beauty that is in the
camp even while being surrounded by hundreds of armed men
and APCs. To see that the only way they can take away the peace
and beauty is if you give them the power to take your lives.
Such acts in defence of people, the territory and the future are
examples of practicing and living sovereignty and controlling
destiny. Fighting for what is already ours is not a difficult thing
to do, however, the more important and harder part of the fight is
12

for the individual to believe in and practice those rights that he or
she is defending; otherwise it is just rhetoric.
So the battle grounds have shifted and we face our enemy with
a whole new breed of warriors. When a call goes out and a message touches a person to go to offer assistance, a spirit awakens
in them. There is a definite change in a person's thinking and in
the way they respond to the situations, when they are following
Fools Crow's instructions that warriors have to prepare thems_elves spiritually fir_st and that this is the most important preparat10n. We now see this movement happening around us with many
of our peop_le_ returning to their cultural and spiritual ways and,
therefore, givmg the younger generation a better example to follow. We still face many of the same situations in our communities but there is less fear to take on the problems and work
towards resolving them to make positive changes.
We must be careful in how we deal with situations which
jeopardize our rights, the land and its resources, because our
enemy is getting smarter in how to counteract and subvert our
r~sistance. I know that the government does not give or take our
nghts away but some of our own people believe that it does. They
belie~e in the governmental process. They are the ones who
negotiate the rights of our grandchildren out of existence.
. It is extremely hard for me to try and say in words, the feelmgs ~hich prevailed during those years and up to this generation
of resistors and freedom fighters. I hope and pray that you find
your place in this struggle. To the men and women of the Six
Nations who fought the anny with bare fists and drove them out
of your land, I have the deepest respect for all of you. To the
strong-hearte~ defenders at Gustafsen Lake, remember why
blood was spilled on that land in a sacred manner. Under heavy
fire, you charged the enemy and lived to tell the story. I will tell
my grandchildren these stories to remind them that the fires in the
Confederacies are still burning strong in the hearts of our allies
the Six Nations and the Shuswap.
'

13

Leonard Martin

Jack Forbes

The Whales Are Glad They're
Not Indians

Untitled
One must visualize, being on the Road Block. Or walking the line
of confrontation. The passive seeking of public sympathy, has
fallen on deaf ears. The security blanket of the Media, has been
lifted. You are face to face, with Armed Force. Sent to subdue
your defence. Don't forget about the "Red Dots." Remember_that
the spirits of thousands of fallen Warriors are with you. To either
greet you into their world. Or to guide you on, to fight another
day.

"You With The Gun"
You look with fear in your eyes, as you peer from
behind your false courage of Racism.
It is the same law, that keeps you from opening
fire.
That is keeping me, from zipping up your body bag.
Soon those rules of engagement, will be turned in
for that Geneva Convention.
We all know, that there are no rules- except on CNN.
Sleep well, for we already possess your very nightmares.
Kiss your children farewell, as you salute your
acting superior.
. .
Remember that those you fear the most, are stmmg
from our hundred year nap.

For the three gray whales
I was cheering,
Hoping, like others, that they would
get free of the ice
and they say it cost a million
dollars to help
the two who finally make it
and I was thinking
about how much
the USA spends
to kill each Indian in Central America
and why don't more people
stay glued to their TV's
cheering on the Indians
as they try to escape
from the helicopter gunships
and Contras
and army death squads.
I respect whales
intelligent ones
whom we have learned
should not be slaughtered
anymore, and
yet I wonder
how long will it take to learn
not to kill the Native People
of this land
after 500 years of genocide.
It seems the whales
cannot be called communists
and now there are so few
that most countries
have abandoned their killing

14

15

Jack Forbes

Jack Forbes

And will that be true with the
Native American race?
When the brown people of Central America
have been slaughtered
and replaced by mixed-bloods
and white people from the north
raising cattle for hamburgers
and export crops
to sell in super-markets
then will it be like it is
with the Cherokees and the Sioux.
the Hopis and the Choctaws,
they can be left alone
once they've lost their lands
and are run by the
white churches and the
Interior Department?
In case you've forgotten
Native Americans didn't have to be
called communists
in those days
tribalism was enough
with paganism
and just the fact that they had
countries of their own
that the U.S. wanted,
that was enough!
Avarice guaranteed that Indian land
was mostly gone
after 1890
and then the oil had to be stolen
in this country
and whatever good land
had remained
was taken by the allotment system,
leasing, and fraud of
the usual kind.
16

Avarice guaranteed that the U.S. would
tum south, hacking off a big slice of
Indian Mexico and then,
looking south, beyond,
to little republics
less able to resist
the Yankee dollar...
and the Marines.
Not long it was, then, that
every rebel Indian
every freedom-loving
halfbreed
every zambo
became a "red"
and to fight for your independence
to fight for simple justice
was enough to earn the label
of "commie."
In times past those called whales had no rights,
for their very being was
demanded to produce
money
their body liquids and
sometimes flesh
being sold
to produce profits
for the greedy
and now that they are almost gone
the harpoons and
factory ships
no longer pursue
them
quite so relentlessly
and overwhelmingly
but the Indians ...

17

Jack Forbes

Jack Forbes

The Native Red-Brown Peoples of America
it seems
are to be granted no reprieve
hunted when they were
just Indians
now they are murdered
as leftists
and communists
for only seeking justice in their own lands!
It's good that whales
don't own any land that the
Rich People wantIt's good that you can't call whales
a bunch of leftists!
A preacher in Houston, a Christian
tells his white
congregations, so they say,
that it is God's will
to kill communists
murder being okay
but then
they always did like to
kill Indians in Texas
not much Indian land left
in the vast Lone Star State!
When the greedy people want something
that belongs to someone else
they always find a waydon't theyto come up with the
right names
the big dirty ones
Savages
Injuns
Halfbreeds
Greasers
18

Leftists
Commies
Isn't it time to recognize the fact
that people of American Race
are as good as whites
that the masses of
Guatemala
of El Salvador
of Nicaragua
deserve the right to life
free from
bullets of death
made in the U.S.A.?
I experience great joy
in knowing that
the whale people
are
at last
being given a chance
to live in their oceans
free from terror.
I ask you then
where are the
oceans of the Indians?
Can you show me the waters
where Indians will be
left alone, will be free?

19

Aztatl (Jose L. Garza)

Dorothy Christian

BLOODLINES

SOUTHWEST JOURNAL:
MEDICINE EAGLE'S GATHERING

Your steely blue eyes
Open wide, staring
Your hunger spilling
All over my body
Your desire oozes
To invade my space
Your ever so obvious hatred
Contorts your face
As your mouth twists into a smirk
To tell me your Grandmother
was a full blooded Indian!

(in memory of Chief Reymundo Tigre Perez)

My blood memory boils
As I think of your Grandmother
And all the generations of Indian women
Who sacrificed themselves
To men like you
Thinking they were building alliances
My conscious memory shudders
As my brown skin cringes to the tone of disdain
Of you and your ancestors
Who so easily stole our lands
And now you want to own our bloodlines too
So you hold a gun to our heads
My spirit memory glistens
As I hear the voices of my Grandmothers
Telling me not to forget
To protect our blood
Because it is as precious as our lands
We stand to protect
My heart memory screams
NOT ONE INCH MORE .. ..
NOT ONE DROP MORE ... .
NO WAY, NO HOW, NO MORE!
20

Oyes pues, Maestro Tigre, now that you have crossed over to the
other side, can you tell us what it is like? Is it similar to the
stormy times we shared in Detroit, wandering amongst the chaos,
searching for the meaning of life in the present tense? Is it the
madness of the 1960s with knife held between the teeth swinging
from one mast of injustice to another, our written words ambushing the King's representatives at every cove on the shore? Did we
do right in risking our lives to immolate Crazy Horse and the
Mixteca Indian leader Emiliano Zapata ascending from the
moutain top for an occasional raid on the oppressors who held
our people captive? The midnight thieves continue to toss stones
at our sacred temples, breaking every window then running away
without being caught because they know that after all, boys will
always be good 'ole boys. From where you can see Tigre, is anyone up there keeping an accurate record of all this?
Just a few miles east of the Kanto celebration dedicated to the
well being of the sea creatures, I reconsidered the trophies safely
labeled and stored in the crowded automobile; wild desert and
mountain sage, red Colorado cedar, earth stones with images running through them, a pair of old gourd rattles from Mayo River
country farther south, and a special parrot feather given by the
Huichol on the burning desert floor of the Kiva. These objects we
took home with us to guide us through the wintry blasts of difficult times. They grant us the authority to speak on behalf of the
earth's distress and dismemberment, a genocide against the living
creatures of the earth that continues with a renewed frenzy at the
scent of money. It was the last time we saw you. We embraced
many lessons at Kanto, endured the weather and our own doubts.
Our lives were enriched and changed. When authority is carefully passed on it may someday resonate again with the same if not
stronger force. This lifetime knows its limitations does it not? A
path not taken, a road pursued too far?

21

Aztatl (Jose L. Garza)

Aztatl (Jose L. Garza)

St. Vincent Hospital
Congestive Heart Failure
Shown Sunday through Saturday
10:05, 12:35
15:05, 20:05
St. Vincent, pues vato,
there is a hole in my heart
where a poem oughta be,
an ache in my soul,
for the loss of innocence.
The Medicine Bundle dangles
over the edge of the bed,
embraces the blood pressure balla black spring bulb draped over it;
027 /020 nitro blood thinner
where a poem for life oughta be.
They claim their machines can pump on forever
without being held by the hand, if you let them;
until one bright morning without warning,
Death will smile at the foot of the bed,
a macabre jokester playing pinball
with the master control switches,
flicking lit matches at the pure oxygen containers,
wearing dark sun glasses in winter.
Anciano Tigre, following the arrest and subsequent parole by the
fascist cardiac police, I was surprised to find my name on the
mail still being delivered to the same old house, surrounded by
the Tree Spirits who had rescued me. Was this an indication that
all was well? Or do you mean to tell me that when we die life
really does continue onward and upward without us? Does the
U.S. Postal Service also deliver in heaven?
So many foolish questions. So little time to respond.

22

The brief stroll through Santa Fe brokerage houses selling Indian
wares and dreams, with slight variations one from the other, did
produce a few treasures; a nod of the head in greeting from an
Indian homeless person in tattered Levis moving skillfully and
stealthily amongst the crowd of wealthy tourists, and the Pueblo
elder living in the city who greeted us at the doorway of the jewelry shop, begging time and money. The elder said that most people believe that he is crazy from the sun. He said he knew that the
lessons of the burning sand are patience and strength. He had
wandered the lonely canyons of the Sangre De Cristo Mountains
and farther north to Taos searching for his 'double,' the 'other,'
the Nahual guardian, he said.
Camping in the desolate, dry foothills of the Jemez Mountains
having to transport in bathing and drinking water, life grinds
down to a crawl before the onslaught of the noon day sun.
Wandering amoung the dry canyon walls makes one appreciate
the abundance of water in the northland where it is too often
taken for granted. At Sun Dance time, four days among the stone
crevices veined red, purple and yellow; among the spontaneous
combustion of pinon, cottonwood, juniper and mountain
mahogany populations of trees, wondering how they can stand
still all day without a whimper in the hundred degree heat. Four
nights with the coyote and wild dog songs to Tsi-mayoh in the
distance, watching their silouettes move closer to the campsite
when the familiar sounds of the aging evening quieted. Coyote
had picked up the scent of Walking Bear, the thick haired out-ofhis-environment Husky dog. I wondered if Bear could summon
the strength not to dart outside after the intruders. Seven thousand
feet above the dry arroyos, the stones there speak of still higher
places, stronger winds and more true to life earth revelations in
their pristine, simplest forms. The scars are real and the happiness
complete in the victory over the challenges of the journey of a
full life. It is what separates the Iyac Tlamacazqui, the warrior
priest, from the simply curious. Maestro, our exploits have been
many and the battles won numerous yet always there is one more
crossroad, one more raging river luring us to the promises on the
other side.

23

Aztatl (Jose L. Garza)

Aztatl (Jose L. Garza)

Maestro Tigre, at Chimayo Sanctuario the miniature silver and
brass replicas of arms, legs, hearts, abdomens and other body
parts filled the showcase at the gift shop. The carved imitations of
body parts were used as offerings in prayers to secure a cure. On
view were crucifixes from Africa, homemade, brightly painted
Christian crosses made of wood and also carved animal representations to be carried on the person for protection. The small
wooden, silver and brass animal figurines attracted me the most.
These were representations of the animal guardian spirits worn
by the Indian people. I chose one that would insure the continued
fertility of the creative heart and mind. The store keeper claimed
that it was the civilized Spaniards who brought the symbol of the
quincux and the cross to this continent. I did not mind his ignorance because the inner silence of such truths, tested by the forces
of Creation, is stronger than their outward manifestations. Their
outward manifestations allow them to be seen by we pitiful
Human Beings. The symbols have power only in the truth. It is no
wonder that the priest in charge at Chimayo felt compelled to turn
to the sole Indian policeman on the church premises to keep an
eye on me. It seems that one of the parishioners had turned me in.
All that the bumper sticker on our automobile asked was for people to HONOR INDIAN TREATIES, como en Chiapas. It
seemed like a reasonable request considering all that had been
taken from us. The Indian policeman that was summoned was a
young man, visibly embarrassed that he was asked to follow me.
We exchanged nods in confirmation over the ridiculous situation.
We both understood how deep the scars of history, war and
revenge had cut their mark into this vast and complex countryside. We both had our work to do.

was contained equally in the majestic rise of Quetzalcoatl as the
Morning Star as well as in the scamper of tiny spider legs that
hardly left a trace of their passing on the cooling, shifting sand.
Sun spots reached with their heavy winds to carry the canyon
hummingbird from Cliff Rose to Palo Duro, the lizard from one
cactus shadow to another. Automobiles on the curving canyon
road above our encampment joined the migration from the steaming city to the cooling lake in the distance. Sharp, piercing mountain shadows slowly dissolved into another crystal clear, cool
moonlit night. All was as it should be, and life continued to move
ahead as a matter of inches, a moment lost to delay, an opportunity better left alone.
There is one thing I would like to ask of you Maestro Tigre,
please tell me that there are no Indian police up in heaven. Tell
me that our people do not contradict one another up there. Tell
me, will I have to hide the tequila bottle under my long, yellow,
plastic authentic Dick Tracy trench coat to get it through the
gates? Pues guy, you will meet me there for one final toast, que
no? It will be good to see you again in a place where words have
no power. We will rest and not be ashamed of being content with
watching the Universe unfold before us. We will sit silently and
partake of the energy that moves within and around us, that elongates and shrinks us with each harmonic pulsation of warm sum?1-er sunlight. We will move as the seed moves to seek its rooting
m the womb of our precious Earth Mother, quietly and with much
humility.

That same evening the white column of fragile clouds formed
themselves into a crude Indian cross, a quincux, the ancient symbol of the four directions, the four elements and the four previous
worlds. The red sand cliff overhang in the distance that protected
me from a sudden downpour of rain a few days ago shuffied the
ice in the cooler with the invisible hand of hot reflected sunlight.
The clinking sound of ice being transformed into liquid water, a
herons favorite dining place, became the conduit for the realization that all things truly are connected to one another. Knowledge
24

25

Teresa Marshall

Sitting on Mother Earth

School

Brown-Eyed Divas

I'll take you back to olden days
when school began.
They came to the place
where my ancestors lived.
They ripped away
from the arms of my people
Children of the future
crying for help.
They took them away
to residential schools
to teach them a new way of life.
Along with it all
they take away
my way of talk.
Children of future still
learning from books.
But for me
I'd rather be
back in the older ways.
Where my ancestors live
free from all prisons,
rat race and all.
They say Education is the way of life,
But all I see is trouble ahead.
All technology destroying my Mother Earth.
Just look around and you will see.
People of the future so far gone,
So full of Education they cannot stop,
they go on and on.
Children of the future still in school.
Just remember who you are.
Don't ever forget
No one in this world can be the Great Spirit.

Swallowing 500 years of ancestral tears. Voices seared,
salted, numbed, silenced .... quiet. Swallow. Again and again and
again and again .... until,
salt settles as history does and becomes, memory.
They were born on the River Why, somewhere just south of
Denial.
History says,
they were the last of the Red Paint People.
The People never vanish.
They find another place to be.
Sometimes not recognized in another form,
the spirit shapeshifts,
gives way to another,
to change places
in celebration
of the cycles everchanging.
In this spirit,
they smudged themselves with red ochre,
red paint,
and are called savages, red Indians.
Literal winds of contempt lashing at their heels,
they travelled
back and forth
bet'."'een Survival, Hope and Justice carrying with them, all of
their cultural baggage, lined in indelible ink, that reads:
Assimilate, assimilate,
let go your pagan ways,
do the White thing.
Never remember the sacred ways
of the spirit womb that bore you,
mother, matter, wood.
When they reached Hope, they laid out their dreams at the edge
of the universe. Threading songs, braiding histories, weaving
courage, into the soul of the nation.

26

27

Teresa Marshall

Teresa Marshall

Shape shifting into the skin of the earth
on the backs of waking dreamers,
power robes wove the landscape of the six worlds,
stitch by stitch.
Mirroring songs coaxed by sound,
echoing colors urged by light,
seamless dreamers
patterned signs of symbols
into the cloth of the nation.
Walking in whispers
with the breath of the land,
symbols danced in wonder
colored by the celebration of the makers
when,
the custom tailor
sewed their hearts
too close to their sleeves.
Cut fabric,
from the soul of their nation,
frayed at the seams,
sewn too loosely
with faith colored threads
of peace,
ordered
by good government.
They pass on salvation,
gently folding their dreams back into their cultural bags and carry
them along reality's path.
They walk ten miles down the reservation road.
Bus don't stop for Indian souls.
They walk ten miles down the reservation road
past the Indian Agent screaming cat calls

sipping rationed memories of the Indian years.
Pour them another. White whines, if you please.
Water into whine and, they become savaged, ravaged,
tributaries of Indian times.
And they become at the river's edge, memories
waiting out another's Indian summer.
Pulling souls over their shoulders,
they wade into Autumn and continue west again toward Reality,
along the throat of the river.
At the edge of the universe they stretch their granite spines
against the earth, stopping before reaching Denial, chewing
courage, digesting history,
shielding themselves against the thrust of colonial winds
whispering;
Ignore this,
wrap it round the crutch of immortality,
hide behind the cross,
pay for us sinners.
Oh Christ,
we'll be your mothers,
build a brand new wound.
Carve new wombs of glory,
while young braves hang from broken necks.
From the distance, memories visit,
crawling over stones they circle sovereign sisters.
Seven saintly sinners sitting in the sun
sat up on a pulpit, with mesmerizing grins
they looked out over savages indigenous to sin,
and danced erotic promises in blankets soiled in sin.
They circled Noble Savages dangling crosses in the wind
unravelling tales of justice,
prophets in a din.

They walk ten miles. Pass the vintage reserve
28

29

Kimberly L. Blaeser

Teresa Marshall

Thin memories. Long tails
ease into colonial suits and
slither down granite spines into Denial,
into Band Office shoes.
Measuring blood quantum dues
Band Office Blues
land claims refused
welfare abused
as council reclines in shiny new shoes
Ah. The Band Office Blues
who to abuse
which funds to misuse
how much culture to lose
whose soul to pool by the gambling fools
singing the Band Office Blues.
As the
Brown Eyed Divas,
Matriarts on their knees,
scrub whitewashed truths
out of red-neck genes.

Meeting Place
Sweet garments of memory,
I don't know how to follow you.
Crossing and recrossing
the borders.
I was a mermaid once
for ten minutes
in a four-year-old's eyes
and became one
then
and now
when I remember
and emerge.
From the water
laughing
hair like seaweed.
Crowned princess, twice
one night in North Carolina
one in Illinois
my identity
so easy
Indian princess
the one in Peter Pan.

Brown Eyed Divas.
Matriarts on their knees,
tearing worn-out lies
from white collared sleeves.
Brown Eyed Divas.
Matriarts, if you please,
ain't scrubbing no more truths
on wounded, bended knees.

Refuses
like him
to grow old.
Simple distances those.
But these.

30

31

Kimberly L. Blaeser

A. A. Hedge Coke

At the boat landings, I see you raise your leg, knee bent, stepping
to shore. Your hair falls across my eyes. I tilt our chin and flick it
back, then brush it away with the back of our hand because the
fingers hold to the handle of the bucket. The hand is chapped and
tight with the cold night air. It smells of fish.
Then you look up and I see you grin your triumph. I remember
the tired joy we felt at bringing home a meal. But when we look
up, we see the game warden who took those fish we netted that
hungry year. We zip up our thin jackets and rub hands against our
pant legs knowing we must try again and knowing he knew, too.
I pass the bucket to the eager children, reach down to grab the
boat and pull her further onto shore. The old man grasps the other
side, together we ease it out of the water. But as I tum to nod my
thanks, shouting faces, angry twisted mouths, crowd in at the
edges of the night. They are that frowning game warden of forty
years past. They are the resort owners' overgrown children, cursing, throwing stones.
You are stepping out of the boat. Your hair falls full across your
eyes. When you push it back, I am standing before you, a protector. You are my past, standing before me. I am at the landing, one
foot on shore, one in the shallow water.

32

DIGS
The N.P.1.1.C. central headquarters was small but served its
purpose. Tucked in behind an insurance office, near the ancient
Universal Studios lot, the base post provided easy access to those
peoples living inner-city. Outside, the two-story brick building
looked common and was barely noticeable when driving by.
Inside, the large sheet metal desks, molded chairs, and cracked
plastic blinds gave the office the appearance of a low-paid private
detective's quarters. Usually there were only a couple of dozen
members gathered. Today there were so many people within the
small space that their shoulders were pressed against the glass
windows and they could hardly move about without bumping into
one another. This was an important day for them. One they had
long waited for. A turning point.
The votes were in. A new spokesperson had been confirmed.
90% of the known members had turned in written votes and
another 5% turned up at the meeting for a show of hands. A landslide victory was proclaimed. Mike Swimmer was the newly
elected speaker for the Native Peoples' Intertribal International
Coalition.
N.P.1.1.C. operated as a nation within a nation. Its members
banded together to fight for sovereignty of the red nations, for full
treaty benefits, for enforcement of pro-native policies of the Reorganization Effort, and for advocacy of a variety of civil rights
issues which were, in the opinion of N.P.1.1.C., still unresolved.
The members were definitely intertribal, yet worked together as
though they had begun a tribe of their own. Not a Pan-American
Native group, where all assimilated into a whole, but a group
respectful of each other's differences willing to embark an
alliance so strong it could not be suppressed again. Its members
were from throughout North America and from the Aleutian and
Hawaiian Islands. They worked closely with other groups from
Central and South America, and from the Caribbean Islands. In
addition, they supported other indigenous struggles worldwide
including that of the Australian Aborigines, Africans, Middle
Easterners, Indians, Saami, and Asians.
In the past, many North American Native organizations had
failed due to the clash of intertribal cultures. N.P.1.1.C. set the
new standard for unity and solidarity among Native peoples. The
33

A. A. Hedge Coke
A. A. Hedge Coke

group was mostly composed of direct descendants of the HoldOuts and other Native leaders of the past; they _vowed ~o restore
the continent to its state before the Euro-invas10n Penod. They
vowed to restore the dance, to dance back what~ver the
Intruders/Invaders rid this land of. To brin~ back the nch blue,
red, and yellow colors of wildflowers stretchmg out through long,
lush, green grasses; to return the mighty elk, bear, moose, and
wolves to live alongside the graceful deer, otter~, p_uma, a~d panthers on the mountains and the plains; to r~vitahze habitat for
eagles, falcons, herons, and flamingos; to qmcken the pulse, ~he
flush of feathers bound to the ground by skies and waters so thick
with poison, the breath of wildlife would soon be choke~ aw~y
forever without intervention from The People; t? reestablish hfe
as it was known before these days when natural hfe was no longer
viewed as precious, but as expendable. .
.
The elections had been held in the behef that the people within the organization should choose a leader based on honor,
respect, strength, accomplishments for the betterment of The
People, generosity, and honesty. They_ were b_ased on a back to
traditions wisdom. Swimmer was a logical choice. He had shown
all of these qualities over and over again, and had never faltered
in the face of danger.
.
Not one to be intimidated, he had often gone out on a hmb for
the cause without ever being asked to or prodded as some of the
others had to be. He believed the old ways - respect for the e~rth
and her inhabitants. He also believed in peace. The _only time
Swimmer would resort to other means was when Native people
were being endangered or oppressed in. any way ~y !he
Mainstreamers. He had been instrumental m Re-Orgamzat10n
negotiations and in setting policy, twenty y~ars_ before, for ~he
media to follow in portraying The People m literature, aud10. film , television ' and vista-halo broadcasts.T Thosed
trac k rad10,
who knew him knew that he also had the gift of humi ity an
would stop whatever he was doing to help an el~er, a woman, a
child, or a fellow man in need. This is what a wamor does, he had
been told repeatedly as a child, and he understo~d ~hat t~ ~e a
man was meant also to follow the ways of a wamor i~ p~ncipal
and philosophy. This is what separates us from th~ assimlla~ed the ability to remember our ways. He had heard his older fnends
and relatives say this many times.

The meeting produced no mixed feelings as the candidates
had not offered themselves to the election. They were nominated
on reputation alone, not on a campaign strategy. All of those
nominated raised Swimmer high into the air above their heads
and shook his hand one at a time. Emotion rushed through him;
he felt as though he was only a tiny element of The People, as
though he was tangled within their strength and that this force
would guide him throughout his term. He reached out as an older
woman gave him a hand-made quilt she had saved for decades
and another one she had fashioned herself. Much food was served
at the feast and a drum was set up to honor him. He realized there
was standing room only, the office could scarcely accommodate
everybody. They were going to need a larger space for their meetmgs.
Swimmer approached the table and ate last, after everyone
else had been served. His long, dark hair was combed neatly into
braids which joined into a single braid at his waist. When he had
finished eating they asked him to say something. He began:
"Thank you for honoring me in this way. I will serve you to
the best of my ability. I will keep an open-door policy. All are
welcome to come to me at any time to discuss any issue he, or
she, believes vital. Or, just for coffee." He grinned the Swimmer
smile he was known for and resumed his place in the group.
Several people rose to proclaim Swimmer's accomplishments,
remembering all the things he had done for each of them separately as well as for the group as a whole. One woman, so old her
hair looked like smoke curling around her face, stood before
them, pointing her chin toward Swimmer and said, "This man is
tender and kind, yes. But, he is also full of strength and courage.
Be will make a fine leader. I know his family. I have heard many
of you ask about his ancestors over the last few weeks. No, they
never had a chief among them. That Swimmer was from a different bunch. But, they did have many fine warriors and a fine warrior is what we need to lead us today. I believe Mike Swimmer
Will make us proud. You will see."
After the celebration, the business portion of the meeting
began.
"We have a number of issues to deal with," a large, middleaged woman holding a clipboard said. "Does anyone have any
new information on the Northridge project?"

34
35

A. A. Hedge Coke
A. A. Hedge Coke

Someone wearing an old Pendleton coat said, "Red Horse
needs to find some friends. The Yuppies are threatening to protest
her project. I have heard that a family in the White-Collars is
involved in her narcotics find." Her eyes swept the crowd as she
said, "They're outraged."
A man in a cowboy hat said, "Now they know how we felt.
Serves 'em right. I hear Thompson's out to stop everything we try
to do. Seems to me somebody should be over there stopping
everything he does first."
An older man with short white hair and a grey jacket said,
"What we need to do now is to make sure Northridge isn't in a
bargaining position anymore. Fix them so that they can't give us
qualifiers every time we make a step forward."
The woman with the clipboard said, "I believe we should
break up into our previously assigned groups to deal with th~se
matters. For anyone here who doesn't already have an appointment, please see me immediately and I will find a place where
you can be helpful."
Swimmer discussed Northridge and Red Horse, huddled
closely with several assistants. He promised them, "I will meet
with her soon. She doesn't know it yet, but she will become an
ally to the people again. She's too educated, too educated in the
assimilation way. There is always hope for a Native. Don't forget
that. The lost ones just need to be reminded, that's all. The divisions imposed upon our people were our greatest downfall; we
cannot let the same thing happen again. We are in a position of
True Progress. And, we fare well into the De-Progressing of
Euro-American Civilization. Now is the time to stay strong and
stick together. Thank you." He stepped slightly back from the
group, faced fully the entire crowd of N.P.I.I.C. constituents, and
said, "I have to be at a meeting with a friend downtown. I hope to
see all of you soon. Don't forget, think positive. Keep a good
mind."
He shook some hands extended to him on his way out, jumped
into his beat up red truck, and drove away from the office, bushings and springs squeaking all the while. Some bailing wire held
up the muffler and several other parts. The wire was hard to come
by these days, plastics and rubber products had replaced almost
everything; he was lucky to find a roll at an older hardware merchant at the outskirts of the city. He watched the traffic surround36

ing hi_m on all sides, scanning for those who didn't pay as much
attent10n to the road - especially the hoverers. They weren't
bound to th~ pavement. Due to the cushion of air being affected
by the passing roadsters, they often sideswiped those vehicles
that were. He was aware, as always, of dangers.
Drivi_ng through the plagued city he felt the pain of the polluted skies and smelled the stench of the foul air. He wondered
how others could live here all of their lives and never seem to be
bothered by these conditions. He had spent time all across North
America and even for a short time in Central America. He had
lived on the reservations before the changes of the last two
decades and knew the lifestyle of Native peoples. He wanted a
better place for his children and their children. The EuroAmericans had to be re-educated or exiled. There were no other
reasonable choices.
He thought about how beautiful the world really is and how, if
cleaned up properly and allowed to return to its natural state it
could be plentiful again. He knew, also, that by turning aro~nd
the Lost Ones and the Sell-Outs they could outnumber the
Mainstreamers in leadership skills and lobbying. The Hold-Outs
had a good hold on the Coalition of Commerce, but Swimmer
kne~ that they must disband the coalition altogether to rid the
continent of the capitalism that plagued it. The new world mustn't ~nclude any tainted concepts of the Intruders, Invaders, or the
Mamstreamers. It mustn't include them or it would surely be a
case of history repeating itself. They were unwilling to give up
what they c~nsidere~ necessities. The planet could no longer support these fnvolous lifestyles. That time had expired. A reduction
of harmful products and practices with major impact on the environment must happen within the next year or the entire balance
could be irreparable.
Swimmer had scheduled a meeting with an old friend who had
once frequented the Native skid-row in the downtown area. The
man was much older than Swimmer and remembered a lot. He
had shared stories of when the city had gathered them into
vagrant concentration camps in the '90s because the
Mainstreamers thought they were unsightly. Laws had been
Passed to make it illegal to feed the homeless in San Francisco
and the police made it a regular part of street detail to harass
those with mental illnesses and to confiscate their meager pos37

A. A. Hedge Coke

A. A. Hedge Coke

sessions. His friend, Bob Ball, had told him a story of a homeless
Native woman with paranoid schizophrenia, how she had collected blue cloth and paper scraps which she hauled around in a
shopping cart and based all of her reason to survive on. The blue
pieces somehow helped her to piece together an existence worth
living for in her delusionary state. They gave her special meaning, enabling her to cope with life on the street.
Ball had told him that the Los Angeles police force had taken
great pride in knocking over her cart and taking all of her pieces
of blue survival material away. They mocked her and patted each
other on the shoulders as they carried out this mission. Later they
forced her into one of the concentration camps where homeless
could be fed by charitable groups. She had last been seen searching endlessly for her blue bits of sanity.
Some activist groups, such as the Treaty Council and All
Peoples' Congress, had planned open feeds for these people in
the San Francisco Bay area and had been arrested for their efforts.
Patrons of Golden Gate Park claimed that feeding the homeless
obstructed the aesthetics of the park. This was California in the
Twentieth Century. Now, in 2030, there was hope for a change. It
had begun at the tum of the century and they were growing in
number and strength. About 100,000 Native people called the Los
Angeles area home in the year 1990; now it was home to more
than a million Native people and that million was a strong million.
Many of the people arriving from the reservations had been
put on drugs because the Mainstreamer's physicians had diagnosed them with paranoia and depression. Swimmer had proven
in court that the people involved were suffering from BunkerSyndrome, a condition that naturally occurred to oppressed people and gave them the feeling that the world was against them.
And, in 1990, it was.
The Mainstreamers had turned their ugliest at the end of the
century. They began to enjoy viewing prisoners electrocuted or
beaten by police on network television. They even set up a special pay station to air these programs at their own convenience.
The Mainstreamers went even further by airing shows focusing
on their superiority claims which encouraged hate crimes.
Swimmer had likened this behavior to the patterns demonstrated
toward the end of the 1800s when they enjoyed public hangings.

He realized history was repeating itself in the Mainstream culture. He had protested this bizarre Euro-American entertainment
as being inhumane and dangerous to the society. It gave ambitious, would-be killers the inspiration they needed to commit
heinous crimes.
Swimmer's parents were living on the traditional tribal lands
on which they had always lived. They refused to come in to the
city for any reason. Swimmer admired their convictions. Their
yard was a testament to the troubled automotive industry, a car
graveyard which stretched for a good quarter of a mile. The cars
which had been affordable to purchase, broke down quickly. The
parts alone usually cost more than simply buying another
Mainstreamer's auto-discard. He had attended the Institute for
American Indian Arts for a couple of years and had seen a woman
incorporate this into her art by welding sculptures from parts in
"rez car" graveyards she knew in her community.
Swimmer's parents had raised him on deer meat. They proclaimed cows to be stupid, "like the Mainstreamers," and refused
to feed their children beef. Their mother had never given in to
commercial infant formulas, either. "It's still a cow. These are not
cows' babies," she would say. She disagreed with the childraising
methods of the Euro-Americans. "Just listen to them, look at
them, they're pitiful. I'm not raising my children to behave that
way. They must have got it from their ancestors - the apes. The
claim that they are descendants of the apes," she would say and
fill the room with her laughter. "Maybe that's why they have so
much hair on their bodies. Guess that explains it."
He remembered when the Wannabees came around and made
complete fools of themselves, but she felt sorry for them. "What
do they have? Nothing." She fed anyone who came into her
home. If she didn't have food she gave them coffee; if she didn't
have coffee she gave them water. She gave them whatever she
had, willingly.
His friend Bob Ball reminded him of the people back home.
He had lived through the same times as Swimmer's parents and
then some. He was knowledgeable about a lot of things, and
Swimmer knew he could be trusted as a confidant or an advisor.
And he was thin and lived pitifully. Not like the Sell-Outs in their
fancy cars and flashy clothes. He took only what he needed for
himself and gave everything else away.

38

39

A. A. Hedge Coke

A. A. Hedge Coke

Ball had taught him all about the European need to control
and take over and how they had tried to justify such actions by
claiming that the Native People were fighting each other all the
time, "the savages." Or, by claiming that war was inevitable: "In
the history of the world, it has always been conquering after conquering," one of their leaders once said. If what they had said
were true, there wouldn't have been any Native people here when
they arrived. Just bloodshed. Ball also taught him that most tribes
dealt with conflicts in alternative ways, that some tribes didn't
even have a word for war, as they had never experienced one and
they had no enemies. All tribes were indeed different nations and
could work together well if they respected their differences.
The Mainstreamers loved to deny responsibility for crimes
committed by their ancestors. In reality, the Euro-American's
ancestors both organized the Dodger's Major League Baseball
team and organized the massacre at Wounded Knee in the same
year. Also in 1890, what had been healing waters for Lakota holy
men and sacred women only, was taken over by the Invaders and
fenced in, then given a Euro-American name - Evan's Plungewhich was advertised "For Whites Only."
Mainstreamers denied any responsibility for crimes committed to the peoples and on the lands of Central, North, and South
Americas. No responsibility for the loss of the rain forests, or the
redwoods, or any of the tribes they wiped out entirely. No apology for the assimilation, or genocide. The most common
response was, "We helped you people come into the modern
world." "Modern world." This was not Swimmer's idea of
progress.
He remembered learning from his grandmother that the pioneers had committed atrocities against the original inhabitants of
these continents without ever having to worry about it being
logged in history. They only reported their version of "savages
chasing after school marms and burning wagons." Of how the
Euro-Americans had glorified reservation life when, as late as the
turn of the century (1999), families at Pine Ridge had to bum
their shoes to keep warm in the 70 below freezing wind-chill factor winter. The men had taken apart pieces of homes to fuel the
fires, even though the state of South Dakota had tried to make
wood stoves illegal on the reservation. They passed this law in
hopes that the people would give up, much as they had in the

1890s so they would starve, or be frozen into surrender. The
CORRECTION OF PRINTED HISTORY pamphlets now
explained: The people of this area often could not afford to buy
the government heating oil.
The pamphlets also revealed that the Invaders had once
burned so many people in their homes that many bands were left
with permanent names to attest to the torture: Burnt Thigh and
Black Feet. Children who survived massacres all up and down the
plains had been drowned or kept for "living curios" by high ranking officers in the military. This followed the earlier centuries of
torture on the eastern plains and coastal regions and up and down
the west coast. The head of "King Philip" (whose real name was
Metacomet) had been hand-delivered to the Intruders and put on
display at Plymouth. Metacomet, even in those earliest days in
the struggle with Europeans, was convinced that the English
Intruders must be driven from the country.
At about the same time, a Pueblo revolt occurred in the southwest. The Tewa Pueblos were successful in kicking Spaniards out
of their homes, but in retaliation, entire communities were wiped
out by the Spanish Intruders. The hands and feet of many native
peoples were severed and delivered to serve as a message to others on both coasts and throughout the southwest area. Strangely,
N.P.1.1.C. concluded, this practice continued in the 1970s with a
Canadian Native woman, Anna Mae Aquash, having her hands
severed "to identify her dead body," then displayed by the Federal
agents to other native peoples being interrogated by them.
Similar scare tactics were noted in the case of Myrtle Poor Bear
who was coerced into testifying against Leonard Peltier.
N.P.1.1.C.'s hand-outs also told that this information was kept
silent and "classified" until as late as the 1990s.
Swimmer remembered learning that there were some slight
differences in the basic Intruder groups. Since communication
was important for the interests of the French Intruders, they
mixed with natives, even learning native languages and intermarrying-though mostly French Intruder male and Native female
relationships were recorded. Even from their earliest arrivals
here, they had met with and lived with native peoples. This
enabled them to carry out fur trade practices. Simple settlements
on the river fronts staked places to trade. They were never as
keenly interested in colonization as the English, or Spanish

40

41

A. A. Hedge Coke

A. A. Hedge Coke

Intruders. They did, however, take part in manipulation and
exploitation of native people and their need to communicate produced many off-spring with French Intruder blood.
The stream of Intruders seemed endless then, when the
Invaders arrived behind the Intruders, The People used to close
their fingers over their infants' noses and mouths until they
passed through to keep them quiet enough to hide their position.
"Shhhht, the bogey man is coming," they would say in their own
languages. Later, when the children were older they were told
outright, "the bogey man is a White man."
Swimmer hit the downtown loop. He noticed a billboard
advertising the Northridge Basketball team, "The Invaders." He
liked the idea of giving them what they had given The People.
How better to demonstrate the injustices? He thought of other
reverse-insult names: The Intruders, The Yuppies, The Honkies,
The Pale Faces, The Long Knives. He was glad so many teams
were following suit now that it was legal to be impolite to EuroAmericans and it no longer carried a prison term or monetary
fine.
He thought of a game he had seen during football season and
the mascot: The Imperial Wizard. The team was the KKK
Supremacists. How goofy the mascot looked, and rightfully so.
Swimmer felt the sports arena was being kind when they opted
for simpler, more subtle jabs: The Presidents, The Army Boys,
The Marines, The Navy, The Hot Chickees, The Babes. The
Presidents had a mascot named Ronald Reagan. Swimmer really
got a kick out of this guy's antics. Often he was accompanied by
Nancy Reagan, Barbara Bush, and Immelda Marcos cheerleaders. He liked them all and had finally become a fan of sports,
something he never thought he would learn to enjoy.
He remembered Ball telling him that the first person in the
Baseball Hall of Fame was a Chippewa, that there had been
dozens of Native Prima Ballerinas, Olympic Winners and
Football players. He told him of a time when Jim Thorpe (a Sac
and Fox tribal member) had his Olympic medals stripped away
for using his athletic abilities to earn monies to survive. The story
of how a former teammate (Avery Brundy) had been so jealous of
being outclassed by a Native track and field medalist that when
he was placed in charge of the International Olympic
Commission, he used his position to investigate Thorpe playing
42

baseball for small pay before he went into Olympic competition.
He used his position to strip Thorpe of his medals and tried to
bestow them on the athletes who had placed after Thorpe and
who refused Thorpe's medals.
Ball had told him that years before DANCES WITH
WOLVES played, and Graham Green was nominated for an
Aca~em~, the Academy for Motion Pictures had denied flatly a
nommat10n request for Chief Dan George's acting, stating, "We
will never give an Oscar to an Indian for playing an Indian."
Maggie Han had been the first Asian-American to land a girl
next door role _for her community. A role in which she just happened to be Asian and wasn't a stereotypical image of her people.
They were the last minority left other than Natives with this
plight. Finally, Michael Horse landed a role on Twin Peaks that
did not hinge solely on his ethnicity. Ball said, "Too bad the show
wasn't strong enough to survive." Swimmer was glad to have
such a close friend with such a good memory.
He pulled into the narrow streets of the downtown area and
scouted the sidewalks Ball liked to frequent. They were filled
with people hurrying along far below the towering high-rise
buildings painted into artistic commercial murals by corporate
advertisers. Ball had promised to meet him "around town" at this
time, and Ball was usually on time as far as that went. Swimmer
could think of no one else he would rather share his most important day of opportunity, the day he was chosen to serve The
People as a speaker. Seeing Ball would make this joyous day
complete for him. But, there was more to this scheduled
encounter than just that.
Rounding the comer of Broadway Swimmer caught a glance
of him crossing the street a few blocks away. He thought he could
make the next block turn but was cut off suddenly by an autohover skimming past filled with Mainstreamers. Suspended high
above the street were video cameras used to record traffic violations, and signal displays flashing warnings to stop traffic. The
wide oval signals hung on translucent cables. The vermillion letters changed in exactly one second intervals to read 'STOP' in
four languages: English, Spanish, French, and Italian. N.P.1.1.C.
had lobbied to remove or replace all Euro-related languages currently on traffic signs and signals. But, the downtown area boasting a high percentage of Mainstream workers, had fought these
43

A. A. Hedge Coke

A. A._Hedge Coke

changes and had been successful, so far, in maintaining the
Eurocentric references. They had agreed, however, to include
some signals sequences for: Mandarin Chinese, Japanese,
Korean, and Armenian. These inclusions were obvious at the
next light, which included all eight languages. No Native languages were allowed in the downtown area to date, but in t~e
lower suburbs and surrounding Greater Los Angeles commurnty
there were hundreds of signs reflecting signals in a few: Dine,
Lakota, and Tsalagi.
Swimmer watched the lights flash from lime green to vermillion, pausing momentarily at amber in between. He kept his eyes
scanning the sidewalks for Ball. He knew he was nearby but
couldn't locate him again as he circled around the center of the
city's hub. The Mainstreamers lining both sides of the streets
were rushing so fast that they often ran into each other. Swimmer
thought they looked strange, like ghosts of men and women,
moving with confusion. They often were so preoccupied with
multiple tasks that they couldn't focus on one single purpose.
This affected their strides, the way they carried their bodies, the
way they pushed and shoved their way through the crowds, the
way they stole from each other's pockets as they brushed by. To
Swimmer, they appeared to move without reason, without respect
for the earth below the concrete facade. They seemed to be fragments of people rather than whole. Watching them gave him a
sensation like something creeping toward his ears from the nape
of his neck, reaching upward until it set off a jerk reflex in his
upper body. The spasm reminded him to continue looking for
Ball and to ignore the Mainstreamers as much as he could.
Swimmer turned on First Street and headed down to Indian
Row. He was sure Ball would make his way through the ghosts
on the pavement and toward the area more Native people work~d
and lived in. He remembered how the streets had been filled with
people dying from alcohol poisoning only a short time ago. ~e
remembered Ball's work in helping Native people to defeat this
Mainstream disease of liquid poison. Ball had spent years and
years in the pre-Reorganization period establishing free centers
for treatment of alcohol and narcotic abuse in Native peoples.
Swimmer remembered that this work had started in the late
1900s. The efforts of those early days had been phenomenal at

the time, but the problem of addiction was so great that it would
take almost three-quarters of a century to have a major impact.
The introduction of these poisons was certainly one of the most
destructive gifts from the Invaders and Intruders. N.P.1.1.C. took
a hard line against their use. The organization participated in education toward clean generations for Native people. A woman
speaker for them had once put it this way: "Oppression in this
hemisphere brought forth much dysfunction, as did the liquid
which seemed to kill the pain of living in a changing world for
the people who had to live through the Intruders and Invaders
occupation periods. This use of alcohol continued with the
Mainstreamers' era. Not only did it continue, but narcotic use had
been assimilated into the Native community, as well. Though it
was said to have been illegal for Natives to use alcohol, it actually was used to bargain for products, lands, and rights in the treaty
days. This bargaining tactic had devastating consequences. Some
of our greatest minds were plagued by these toxins. Some of our
greatest people fell victim to this spirit of ruin. Some of our greatest families were ruined by its effects. We have to rid ourselves
of this alcohol, these drugs. We have been in the era of alcohol
ever since anyone can remember. It is up to us to change the era.
This spirit of alcohol has endured." Survived for too long,
thought Swimmer as he remembered this. Surely the slowest
smallpox blanket we ever received.
He drove by healthy urban Native men and women and was
proud to see them standing on their own. He didn't care if the
Mainstreamers wanted to kill themselves that way. He didn't
want it for his people. He was glad that they had made it through
the beginning of the Dark Ages in the western hemisphere. He
knew that they had a long road ahead. It was a journey he was
happy to be helping along the way. They were among the living.

44

45

William George

Highway Through Community
Silence
to live in harmony with all creation
Silence
easily mistaken for acceptance and compliance with foreign values
Silence
in my silence you push through me
Innovation
paving new roads to the future, a prosperous future for all
Innovation
ripping me apart, dividing me from the earth
It is that damn highway! That damn highway!
You can keep your innovation, I will no longer stay silent!

46

LAND

Rasunah Marsden

Valley of the Believers
I'll say it this way:
you know they're going to
walk deep
into the forest & dissect it,
they're going to bring
microscopes & dirt samples &
there'll be seekers
of wine & the bread I broke
with you
or anyone. they'll peer
between the leaves
& note the smudges, yes, &
they'll find the bodies
strewn everywhere, & there'll
be a collusion
of confusion & blood &
screams,
(some of them mine) & they'll
gut the place
of gold & emeralds &
desecrate my sacred ground
& they'll water down every
element
of purity & quality they find,
except for one thing:
by that time, you'll be able to
smell me
in their pores, & I'll have
touched upon
the essence in them
of every thing, & in that valley
of tears
we shall already have
become One.

49

Stephen Pranteau

Debbie McHalsie

Untitled

The Tea Party

Winds may gently whisper
Trees may softly speak
Sacred grounds below
Height the eagles seek.

The clang of the shovel, on the rocky wet clay as the grave
diggers patted the fresh earth, seized Jay's chest and squeezed his
lungs. Gasping for breath, he spun, one hand on his chest, the
other reaching out, groping.
The young man nearest to Jay, turned, dropped the claypacked tool he'd been using, "Uncle, Uncle are you okay?"
Jay, tears in his eyes, reassured the young man, "I'm Okay."
He stumbled from his friend's final resting place. Anger as to how
his friend died filled his spirit as he nearly tripped over a discarded pickax. He muttered a silent oath.
Geoff watched as the dignified old gentleman left and, as he
knelt to retrieve his pickax, he saw his uncle meet his aunt by the
gate.
Jay's backward glance to the grave revealed the workers taking the tools to the shed. Their sombre laughter echoed in the tiny
shed as the men took turns entering and leaving. Jay wondered at
the laughter as he turned his attention to his wife and relatives but
his mind was busy evaluating the receding last month with his
friend.
A few days ago as the sun rose over the community Jay and
Norman were in the veranda watching the construction equipment thunder into the community. From his chair, Norman had a
good view from Jay's modest one bedroom home.
Jay would have laughed if anyone had told him he lived in a
one bedroom house. He would have told you that a partition, a
partial one at that, does not a bedroom make. He was dressed in
jeans, a blue plaid shirt, and, on his feet, worn moccasins. He
was, in fact, edgy about the new project. He spit some tobacco
from his cigarette then reached for the offending tobacco with his
finger, removed it from the tip of his tongue and flicked it. As the
vehicles moved earth, each man, lost in his own reveries, watched
the past recede with the realization their lives were changing as
permanently as the landscape.
Jay pointed his cigarette at the crowd behind the equipment,
"I wonder where they'll house everyone? They ran the sewage
line into the creek."

Tears formed a river
Land formed a time
Screaming of a bird
Sings his lonely chime.
Night falls upon us
Stars show a smile
Black clouds will come
But only last awhile.
This is our world
It's our sacred land
This is our ground
Upon it we'll stand.

50

51

Stephen Pranteau

Stephen Pranteau

"There goes our water. That creek flows into our lake. How
come they couldn't put the line away from the community?"
Norman's bleak voice went on bleaker now, "I hear bunkhouses
are being built. Most of the trees are gone. How long do you think
before they get the permanent structures up and what do you
think the land will look like in twenty years?" Norman shook as
he continued his questions with no answers, at least none that
were apparent to him. "I wonder if this many people will be
working after?" Norman pointed with pursed lips toward the
river, he couldn't trust his hands not to shake as he asked the sixty
four million dollar question, "Who said we needed to dam our
rapids?" Norman wiped tears from his eyes, looking accusingly
at his pipe. A thousand campfires couldn't make his eyes water.
Wistfully, he turned to look at the carnage.
A month ago Norman's home had been the first to make room
for the ferry which would drag everything else after it. He'd
grabbed a gun, shouted at the crews, "Get out of my world!" He
was going to shoot the first person to cross his home. Norman
relented but it took a court order with four policemen to disarm
him. Later, as Norman was being yelled at by the four policemen,
he thought to himself, as he watched the red face with spit flying
from its mouth, "No wonder I misspoke myself. Hell, maybe, I
did want them to leave the world. The gun wasn't loaded." The
spittle-spewing heads disappeared to needle points as Norman
used techniques to tune them out which he'd honed to perfection
while endlessly and patiently waiting for game in total immobility. A shield dropped, covering his face with cold uncomprehending eyes that saw things somewhere else beyond time and
space. The mask excluded the policemen who would have elicited as much response yelling at blades of grass in the wind. When
Norman explained how he'd listened to his guides to exclude the
police, Jay knew exactly what he'd meant, he'd been using the
technique all his life. The house Norman had lived in for forty
years was tom down the day following his arrest. A day later the
ferry began operations from Norman's old vantage point overlooking the community.
Next day, the fly-in magistrate spoke to Norman who stood
unabashed and unafraid in front of the make-shift court bench.
Made from a closet door, it had been hastily ripped off the hinges

to the school's janitorial supplies. The construction companies
did not donate anything to the community. That would be interfering and there could be no interference. Pressed into service,
the magistrate now spoke over the unfinished wood, "The rule of
law must prevail. One person cannot stand in the way of progress,
I have no choice, ahem ... you could have hurt someone, I sentence
you to six months incarceration, and ... quiet in the court or," the
magistrate threw a magisterial glance at the small crowd, "else
I'll have everyone thrown out and arrested ... where was I? Oh yes,
I was going to ... place you on two years probation. See a probation officer once a month. Case adjourned. Next." The judge was
a busy man.
The spectators in the courthouse gasped as two members of
the force stood over the old man who was made to take a seat
behind them.
One old man attending court as a visitor, one of Norman's
friends, wailed, "They can't castrate my friend." He was ushered
out by some young woman presumably to prevent him from
being thrown out and possibly arrested. He returned with the
young woman a few minutes later with a slight grin on his face.
The magistrate took immediate offense. "Wipe that smile off
your face. This is no laughing matter."
Confused the old man turned to the young woman. She
hushed him. Quietly, and with a blank look at the pudgy man with
authority, the elder gentleman of the community assumed a
stance in the room that further irritated the green suited tyrant
behind the desk. Exasperated, the magistrate glanced at the
policemen who took up the glare.
As for Norman, he sat there quietly as others, mostly outsiders, went to face charges of assault, theft and sex offenses.
He'd been the only one sent to jail. The locals were aghast.
Norman left on the same plane with the sentencing magistrate
although in retrospect Jay thought that the magistrate would have
preferred not to have Norman in the same plane.
Norman returned to Jay's home from jail. Release had come
within three weeks, the lesson to the community having been driven home. Now they were sitting in the veranda discussing old
times.

52

53

Stephen Pranteau

Stephen Pranteau

Jay rose to get tea and biscuits his wife Helen had baked. The
small log house smelled of fresh bread. The streaks of light from
windows sought out darkened comers of the small house, illuminating dust motes as they drifted past the light. Jay took a blue
plate, two cups and a tea pot, set everything on a tray and offered
refreshment to his friend. There were no electric lights for them.
The light of day and kerosene lanterns for an hour or so in the
evening were all the old people required. The fire from the stove
heating the oven threw heat across the room and carried scents
outside the house.
Jay placed milk and sugar on the tray, checked the condensed
crap. Helen gave him a plate of steamy buttered biscuits. "Those
smell really good. 'Milk,' I wonder who thought milk was good
for humans?" He returned to the verandah after kissing his wife's
cheek and telling her not to worry.
"Have some bannock and tea," offered Jay as he returned with
refreshments.
Norman helped himself to biscuits as Jay poured tea.
So many trees had been cut that the two buddies could see
where the rapids began. Beyond the clear cutting, lay the area
landscaped by scrapers until the mud and limestone gleamed like
a white gash in the earth's side, to lie exposed to the elements.
The weather changed the night Norman passed away. The
wind blew in from the northwest bringing cold wet rain. The lashing wind blew rivulets of water across the window. Thunder and
lightning raked the sky and the volume of the thunder depressed
the little house pushing it closer to the ground.
Jay had awakened from the light sleep of the old listening to
the noisy rainstorm, thinking about the difference between the
sound rain makes on a tent as opposed to the sound it makes on
a wooden structure. He snuggled deeper with Helen under the
blankets. He thought as he held his wife, 'I do not want to leave
this warm bed but I need to pee, and make some coffee.' Jay, shivering exaggeratedly in his long underwear with the button down
flap, in the cold, damp cabin, pulled on his boots, and threw a
jacket over his shoulders to go outside. He frowned as he noticed
Norman was not moving and thought that strange. 'He should
have made the fire already. It's usually going by now. He's always
saying something to me about laying in bed till all hours with my

old lady.' In the pounding rain he ran to the outhouse. His
physique, soaked to the skin, shrank under the wet longjohns
when he found that Norman had succumbed and passed on.
Shocked as he was, Jay summoned the police to report the death
and later the doctor from the construction crew sent for the body.
Jay took care of the legalities as the community made ready for a
funeral. Jay knew that the community people would want to be
involved in the wake and funeral. Friends and relatives took over
the details, including where the community wake would be held.
The Parish Hall was the logical choice since it had electricity,
which none of the local homes had, and it was large enough to
accommodate as many people as would show up during the peak
times. People drifted in and out of the hall the first night as if they
were in a daze.
During the second evening an itinerant preacher showed up to
sing hymns and pray. The Parish Hall had peak crowd as everyone who knew Norman was at the wake. Food was being served
next door, and there were shifts of people moving between the
hall and the dining area. Inside, the hall had all its windows
opened - the cold rain of two days earlier was a distant memory
and the heat had become unbearable, even with the windows
open. There was no cross breeze. The people sitting against the
wall around the hall, surrounding the closed casket, had stopped
singing to catch their breath. Other people wiping their faces,
were glad that someone else was going to be doing the harmonizing, and calmly placed their hymn books under their chairs.
In a loud, passable voice the young preacher sang as the
organist played music for him. Everyone sat back. During the
second verse, he stretched his arms, shut his eyes, and inadvertently closed his hymn book. He opened his eyes, forgot his lines
and frantically started screaming for 'Jay-sus!' He pounded his
chest and the hymn book. With a crash, the organist stopped playing. The screaming awoke one old woman who'd been lulled into
lethargy by food and heat. To save herself from falling she
grabbed someone's thigh and pinched. The girl screamed as the
old woman clamped her strong thumb on the young woman's soft
thigh. The preacher man quit his yelling, picked up his other
books and he was gone. A few minutes after the earnest young
preacher had left, Henry, standing at the comer of the hall, was

54

55

Stephen Pranteau

Stephen Pranteau

shaking uncontrollably. The poor preacher in training must have
heard the laughter all the way home. One fat lady, with her shoulders heaving fell off her chair and as people rushed to her aid
everyone collapsed in a heap on the floor. The girl who'd been
pinched showed her mother the beginnings of a bruise as the old
auntie tried to explain, "I thought I was in Hell. I was trying to
hold onto something. I'm sorry. I didn't know what that screaming was. Did I hurt you?" The girl and mom soothed the old
Auntie as she gave her niece a hug and a kiss. She turned and
waved a dismissal to the rest of the congregation, as she sat back
down.
Jay rose wiping tears from his eyes, "Thank you everyone for
your kindness but please don't forget, we are here for a reason. I
am thankful." He swept his eyes, which had lost none of their
acuity even though he was seventy, over all his friends and relatives who sat there willing to sing hymns, trade anecdotes and
assist the family. Finally, after a few minutes, when everyone had
composed themselves, "Can someone please lead us?" The rest
of the long goodbye was uneventful.
Upon these few minutes of reflection, Jay's mood darkened as
he stood waiting outside the fenced graveyard. Dressed in his
Sunday best, he knew he was leaving a large part of himself and
with the afternoon sun in his face, felt mortality. Finally, he and
Helen were going to be taken home. They hugged, shook the
hands of their friends and relatives and promised to visit. After
declining the offers for supper, they left everyone standing on the
riverbank in front of the church. Geoff assisted his Aunt Helen
down the river bank, into the boat. The twenty foot yawl powered
by a twenty-five horse power motor flew along the river with a
tall white rooster tail behind. It was a fishing boat but it had been
cleaned and given a coat of green paint. Jay and Helen sat quietly against the wind with the reflection of the sun burning their
skin, burnishing and polishing until their faces glowed like copper. Geoff, after docking, was pleasant as he helped his Aunt up
the bank. Jay had never built stairs. He arrived ahead of his wife
and, as he gave his house a critical stare, he whispered, "I'll have
to start earlier if I'm to get ready for winter. I need to put in storm
windows and a porch as well as bank up the sides of the house."
He opened the door for Helen, who had hugged her nephew

before sending him back on his way. She watched him jump into
his craft and race to the other end to start the motor in a very
expert fashion.
Jay stepped behind Helen. The empty house was still warm
with a faint odour of earlier baking. He was glad to get the smell
of the fresh turned earth out of his nose; he felt disturbed at the
mess he'd seen at the graveyard. One old couple, who'd raised
sixteen children, most of whom drank, had graves overgrown
with weeds. He made up his mind to return later to clean up the
pitiful markers.
Jay, as he stoked the fire in the kitchen stove said, "Since the
project came into town, everything's changed. I mean everything!
We can't get involved with each other as a community. People are
wanting to be on their own too much and most times people who
want to be alone have something to hide." Jay didn't like the way
this particular line of thought was going and decided to change
the subject. He thought that the subject of why people embrace
being alone, was beyond him. 'My opinion means as much as a
hill of beans in this settlement.' Jay softened as he moved to
Helen, "The engineers have scheduled this dam to be completed
in 1965." He gently moved to embrace her. She calmed him more
than anything he knew and as they stood by their cook stove, he
whispered quietly into her ear, "Helen, I only wish I was young
and strong enough to work, you and I could buy so many things."
Helen mused, "I don't think you would be happy with so
much destruction and everything comes with a price." She
slipped easily from under his arm as she moved about in the small
kitchen. She was upset that their life was changed forever and her
movements rattled pots and pans piled on her counter.
"The work launched when barges unloaded heavy equipment." Jay fetched a tub from the corner of the kitchen, "One of
the barges was turned sideways and a ferry was born. Took
Norman's house and life." Jay paused briefly. "The convoy
spilled over to the other side." He moved by the counter to assist
his wife with the pots and pans. Jay, positioning utensils into the
blue enamel tub until it could hold no more, placed them outside
the door and said, "I hope the kids come for them soon. The food
really hardens on the pots, oh yeah, do you recognize your stuff?"

56

57

\

Stephen Pranteau

Stephen Pranteau

Helen loved her husband who was thinking of her and her few
possessions during this stressful time. She brushed a small tear
from her eye, wiped the counter until it gleamed. "You know who
I feel sorry for? Them." Helen indicated the children playing
along the top of the river bank, "They feel change immediately."
"I believe it, " Jay moved across the room to the window to
watch the children. "They were moved from a pair of two room
schoolhouses to a dozen or more trailers plus two hundred new
children. There's been a lot of problems."
"The village grew to over 3000 newcomers." Helen sighed as
she contemplated the destruction.
Jay knew the settlement was suffering physically; there had
been several fires because people were careless. "The people are
forgetting what survival is. I've recently been told of welfare,
some type of government assistance." Jay threw up his hands in a
gesture denoting, 'I don't know.' "People who can't work are able
to get support. Can you believe that? Anyway I'm tired of feeling
so low. I know my buddy, bless his soul," Jay looked up in what
he hoped would be taken for intense fervour by whatever Spirit
took notice of such things, "would not have wanted us feeling so
exhausted."
Helen nodded in agreement as she poured water for tea from
the stainless steel container at the counter. She knew his pride but
she wondered, 'how will we survive the approaching winter?'
There was no one to help, not like the old days. She watched Jay
peer out the window as he looked for children who could be
heard but not seen as they ran down to the water's edge.
Jay, reminiscing, knew that Norman always got a kick out of
this particular story that kept going around in his head, and
maybe the memories were coming from the smell of violets. To
Helen, "A few years ago a teacher by the name of Edward came
to teach. His wife hated this place, she used to do things to drive
him crazy. He'd go into some kind of spells, and the airplane
would come for him. Do you remember what she did that made
him take all his clothes off in front of the children? I don't. He
left and she never came back either. I still remember the violet
water she used and the smell she left behind."
Helen was lost in her own thoughts before her hubby finished;
thoughts of her relatives as she looked for children in both direc-

tions - the ones to pick up her used utensils and the ones who
could be heard playing near the dangerous river. Her sewing circles had always been a source of joy. She'd invite relatives to her
home to do one of their innumerable quilts. She remembered one
particular time when the women stopped for a second to peer into
her kitchen to wait for Sarah and Judy coming in with a plate of
cookies. They were laughing at something one of them said.
Helen noticed her niece's son slip into the room during the
distraction but did not see him scuttle under their work area. Any
table covered with cloth was Peter's favourite place to play. He
sat underneath, in the dark, playing with his toys.
While working on the quilt, Helen, Judy and the others discussed how assistance could be given without intruding or interfering with their family members who needed help. Suddenly the
women heard from somewhere.
There was a more insistent cough and then, "Boy, these old
ladies 'tink!"
There was a collective snort from the circle as the embarrassed Judy pulled her offspring from beneath the table, and
marched him out of the room. He was bundled up and shooed out
the door to play.
Judy returned, looked at the women around the table then
started an uneasy giggle. The hesitant laughter drew the others
and soon everyone was joining in. As the water boiled, Helen
took to remembering the dear women, some of whom had fallen
victim to the bright lights of the construction. She poured water
into the tea leaves and placed cookies on a plate. She took the
plate and brown Betty teapot to the table that Jay was moving to
the window. As her husband sat down she could see a smile on
his lips coinciding with her own. Ceremoniously, without fuss,
Helen poured the dark brew. She sat at the table with her husband
munching on the small fresh cookies, listening to children play,
drinking tea while looking at a river made golden by the setting
sun. "Memories," she thought, "are made of moments like this."
She smiled at her husband over her steaming cup of tea made
with her own hands for her husband and partner. He returned her
smile as they thought of their life together and, each in their way,
said a respectful goodbye to a lifelong friend.

58

59

Randy Lundy

Randy Lundy

dark forest

this sadness

the trees stretch long shadows
moonlight cowls
across the sleeping forest floor
darkness upon darkness
we mistake one for light
but there is not enough light
to call this shape owl
to call this shape fox
only the whispering
feathers stir the still air
furred feet bend dewed grass
our eyes are empty
our ears fill our heads
with visions of teeth and talons
the stones are silent prophets
bone-white and waiting

a sky heavy with clouds
a bough burdened with snow
your tongue bends
to touch the frozen earth
the tracks of small animals
have led you
into this sheltered place
you kill and roast their bodies
over a slow, green fire
when your belly is full
you suck marrow from thin bones
warm icicles in your mouth
now, perhaps, you can say
how memory lives in the bones
how it is possible
to swallow the life of things
to speak from this quiet center

60

61

Randy Lundy

Randy Lundy

\

hanging bones

stone gathering

i have hung hollow bones
with strands of braided hair
in the branches of dark trees
the winds voice
a song beneath the stars
bones of my people
hair of my head
the moon brings her lantern
to witness
shadows spinning into dances

stones have gathered in circles
on moon-lit hilltops
with bowed heads they meditate
upon the things stones know
deep in forested valleys
there is singing and dancing
wind and shadows
honour these gathered stones
the stones inhale
ten thousand days
the stones exhale
ten thousand suns
into stone-sized indentations
in the earth
if we wait this long
will they
guardians of beetle and worm
speak the secrets of mountain and bone?

in early morning light
mosses and fallen leaves
stir imperceptibly
the bones cry out:
rise, rise with the dawn
be flesh
upon our cold, white bodies
we are not tired
we will carry you
we will carry you far

62

63

Richard Van Camp

Richard Van Camp

the uranium leaking from port radium and
rayrock mines is killing us ...
The girl with sharp knees sits in her underwear. She is shivering.
The bus is cold. The man at the gun store has seagull eyes.
Freckles grow on the wrong side of his face. This town has the
biggest Canadian flag anywhere. It is always tangled and never
waves. For grass this playground has human hair. It never grows
on Sundays. The kids that play here are cold and wet. They are
playing in their underwear. They are singing with cold tongues.
They have only seven fingers to hide with.
Those are rotting clouds. This is the other side of rain. The band
plays but there is no sound. i snap my finger but there is no sound.
There is someone running on the highway. There is no one in the
field. Nobody owns the cats here. Nobody knows their names.
They are letting the librarian's right eye fuse shut. There is a pencil stabbed thru her bun. She can read "i didn't pop my balloon
the grass did" in my library book. She looks into me. One eye is
pink. The other is blue.
My father said take the bus. There is yellow tape around my
house. A finger is caught in the engine but they only rev it harder. There are cold hands against my back. i want to kiss
Pocahontas before she dies at age 21. Someone is stealing the
dogs of this town. Doctors hold babies high in black bags. My
mother's voice is a dull marble rolling down her mouth, stolen to
her lap, not even bouncing, not even once. She has sprayed metal
into her hair. i am sitting on a red seat. My hands open with
rawhide.
This is the ear i bled from. There is a child walking in the field.
He is not wearing runners. He is walking with a black gun. In my
girlfriend's fist is a promise. She does not raise herself to meet
me. Her socks are always dirty. She is selling me a broken bed so
she can lay on plywood. Her feet are always cold. My feet are
always cold. Her basement when we kiss is cold. The coffee we
64

drink is cold. The bus driver does not wave goodbye. Why are
there only humans on this bus? Why are we wet and cold? Why
are we only in our underwear?
I want to run but i have no legs. The tongue that slides from my
mouth is blue.
Friday is the loneliest day of the week she says. The blanket she
knitted this winter is torn upon us. She laughs at me with blue
eyes. She says if you walk in the rain no one can tell you 're crying. The soup we drink after is cold. The popcorn we eat after is
cold. Someone is crying in the basement. Someone is crying next
door.
The dream we have is something on four legs running on pavement towards us. It is running from the highway. It is a dead caribou running on dead legs. I meet its eyes but there are only
antlers. In between the antlers is an eye. It too is cold and watching. Its eye is the color of blue.
The plants here have no flowers. The trees themselves are black.
Someone is under the bridge. The fish are dying sideways. Rain
has started to fall.
The child with the black gun sees my house. He is walking backwards towards me. He swings his head. His eyes are blue. Can
you please sing with me?
The bus driver does not wave good-bye.
The band is playing but all i hear is galloping.
i snap my finger.
My eyes are blue.
All i can hear is galloping.

65

Karen Coutlee

Karen Coutlee

Our Ancestors Are Restless
We are standing at the Nicola river inlet praying for our protection, when a dead fish floated by, a few seconds later it jumped.
A sign that we are now protected?
The Black Bear who used to chase me, has stopped, and
is now watching me clean up Beer bottles in a field, and
approves.
I was told that if he chases me again, I have strayed from the red
road.
A Grandmother, with a red kerchief on her head, came
out of a hole in the ground and said "It's time to come."
I immediately followed her down into mother earth,
along a long tunnel, to a large cave and we introduced
each other to people here and not here, some we had to
skip over.
Our Ancestors are restless, what is the message?
I was walking along a mountain path, above Nicola Lake,
and see a hole in mother earth. There's a photo album
with Black & White pictures of our Grandfathers and
Grandmothers. I scan the book and put it back.
What does it mean? What am I looking for?

sketches of our Grandmothers and Grandfathers. I
searched through them and left them there.
I saw a huge painted handdrum hanging on a stand made
of lodge pole pine. The picture was very vague. Maybe I
tried too hard to see what it was.
What does it mean?
I entered a large room and was drawn to a mural on the
wall. The painting came to life. I saw a stormy black
lake, with no shore, and four large blue fish lying on a
boulder, a pulse barely beating. There is a red-orange
beam of light shining down on them.
I was told this is a sign of hope against the rough times ahead.
I was told that my great-great Grandmother used to go to one of
our traditional fishing lakes. A friend and I decided to go with
others on their annual fish camp, even though we had never gone
before. The Indian Name for that lake is "Nakak'sul," every four
years the fish die. Our ancestors would gather and dry what was
good, there was no waste as this was our survival.
A Company, believing that the lake was dying out, transplanted
fish to the lake. Our Elders laughed, they were wasting their
money because the lake always replenished itself. Who could
foresee that they would claim to own the fish.

I looked into a river and saw the silhouette of a bear
sleeping on the river bed. There were people looking up
at me. I called the bear and some of the people to come
out, some I had to leave there. I needed them to help me
get rid of the "child snatchers."

The Company that profits from commercial fishing the lake,
called the police to ask us to leave or be arrested. We couldn't
leave of our own free will. Three others and I were arrested while
the rest left to plan our next step. "We must protect what is ours
in order for our ancestors to regain their peace."

Do our children need more support? Who do they need to be protected from?
I was shown an underground art gallery with a pile of

I witnessed the moment when our people, of the Upper Nicola
Band, said enough was enough. If no one will listen then we will
stand at our checkpoint and even die for our Aboriginal rights.
Our belief was so strong, no one can underestimate the power of

66

67

Karen Coutlee

Karen Coutlee

spirituality. It is there at our beck and call; we are born with it.
This is what our ancestors wanted us to remember.

path that our ancestors used to travel when they migrated
to each source of food.

We are immune to simple force and oppression. If we should
leave this world, to join the others who are not here, our strength
is not less; but more!

We have shown our strength and unity and people are now listening to us. We have learned more of our Okanagan Language,
for that is the language we speak here, and no one can take away
our identity. We are restoring our history, sweats and songs.

I am looking into a hole in the ground, I see a blue fish
swimming below. I'm thinking of catching it but a black
bear comes and chases me away. Why?
Perhaps the Black bear has shown me to think about rejecting the
modem way of fishing in our traditional lake, go back to the nets
made of lodge pole pine and hemp. Maybe we need to relearn
how to appreciate the time and patience required to gather the
food for survival.
I am fishing at the harbor, by the Vancouver Trade &
Convention Centre, using plastic bottle crates to catch
golden lake Kokanee. The trays were not effective and
the fish were hard to catch. I am now at home cleaning
the Kokanee, I open my back door and see four large
black fish lying there, dead. I am about to clean them but
I am drawn into the living room where I see my son has
already done the job. The fish are lying on the carpet,
bright red. I tell my son "good for you, I didn't even have
to tell you to clean them."
I was told the dead fish feel sorrow because their natural habitat
has been changed. Millions of years of instinct have been interfered with. There is still hope and strength shown by positive
voice and red color offish. Gold color shows how greed can overtake the preservation of Mother Nature.

In the end, I am stronger for having survived my own rage, fear
and confusion when I felt I could even kill. I retreated into myself
so I wouldn't poison others or lose my own focus to our cause. I
wonder if I was the only one to feel this way?
There is intense discussion between the Band and Government
representatives to bring about a Negotiation Package.
We are back at our Douglas Lake Road checkpoint, at
Quilchena. I am at another one on Highway 5A and see
the RCMP and Government Officials advancing on the
Douglas Lake Road Checkpoint. I sense fear.
I see a body lying by the fence near Highway 5A. Our
people carry him to the Douglas Lake Road Checkpoint.
It is a Band member.
Someone has been shot in Ipperwash, Ontario. It this a warning?
Negotiations are over and a "Bi-lateral Agreement," not a Treaty,
has been signed. The next stage of carrying out the terms of the
Agreement have been started.
We are again at the Douglas Lake Checkpoint cleaning
up the site.
It's over, for now.

I stay awake all night carving three identical deer antler
symbols of a fish, with the rainbow of life attached to it.
Insomnia caused by my indecision to attend a fish ceremony because, in my own insecurity, I don't feel welcome. I go anyway, and offer each to a hole, along the

As I come to understand all that has happened, I know that our
battles were right and good because we are people of the land, air,
creeks and lakes. And it's time to move on. Whi'.

68

69

Lois Red Elk

Travis Hedge Coke

GRASS DANCING

Ramrod Standing

for Joe Dale Tate

Grass dancing north of Route
66 whispers secrets of
survival on a low west wind.
Only you and I hear them, see
them - the apparitions holding
our attention, reminding us of
when we first honored the
grasses flourishing and in
abundance. Our winter was
hard. The ones "pure from
the great spirit," died mother's breasts were dry.
The "long living," lungs fragile,
no buffalo broth to carry
spirit, passed on. Old hides
and moccasins were boiled for
the youth and men. Finally we
ate our dogs, they knew their
sacrifice, that they would
become legend to remind the
greedy and keep us humble. It
was the first sighting of new
grasses that made us cry.
Tears came, washing away
the horrible night, because
some had died, because we
had persisted. We picked
bunches of grass, tied them to
our back and belt, to our arms
and legs and danced for joy
and love that grandmother
earth turned for our life.
"When the grasses are
plenty, there will be plenty
all around," is what they
whispered on that low
spring wind.
70

Fond memories are fading
fleeting like giant bullfrogs
ready for hunting
running from its fate
as food, it leaps away
landing it stops
a great and powerful oak
deep-rooted into the ground
I remember the rumours,
I know their truth
it is recorded in its concentric ages
holding onto
land and source
unmovable and towering
I remember what I know
truth runs far
Etched in thick bark
it has felt bayonet
before rifle-shot
seen others war
around it, yet never
did budge an inch
but for growth
revolutions and clock towers
civil slaughters and hatter's-glue
not untouched
it bears it no mind, no care
By now it has many scars
many thoughts
it is old by us
young by its kind
the strong, the brave
it never threw a punch
never fired arrows
71

Melvina Mack

Travis Hedge Coke

yet never lost
never lost footing, ground, power
Were it a few shades lighted
or dead, romanticized
or devious and corrupt,
there would be statues erected in its likeness
mountains carved to it
towns and kingdoms named for it
Instead it stands
as it lived
defiant without offense
a solid barrier
it still stands
now holding dignity and respect
Its craggy woods
are hard and dry
soft lighting fires
into it, bull frog leap away
the oak still stands.

B.C.C.W. dispos.able
i choose to write
on this paper napkin
cuz i like its rough
homey feel
from trees
trees ya see
'nd they call it
easy 'nd dispos.able
i eat this food
from paper plates
'nd plastic bowls
it easy 'nd dispos.able
in this place I do not
choose must pitch in
things
they call dispos.able
but i know
you know i do
forests give us breath
give us food
sanctuary

'nd give us
'nd give us

'nd give us

'nd they take n'd take
thru clenched teethe
they convince - dispos.able
di s po s ... able!

72

73

Melvina Mack

i wonder this sadness
thru shadows of forest
i wonder 'nd wander these
cold concrete walls
the seams they crumble
'nd tumble 'nd edges
soften to lil' dispos.able
piles 'nd
i blow a warm breath
'nd watch
yellow pollen
fertile pollen
pollen
ride gentle
with a whisper

FAMILY

to a destination
indisposed
out out
side these
concrete walls ...

74

MarUo Moore

SOLIDARITY IN THE NIGHT
This was the night
all the people sang together.
This was the night
all the people dreamed together.
This was the night
all the people danced together.
This was the night
all the people prayed together.
This was the night all the people began to heal.

77

Jack Forbes

Mahara Allbrett

Untitled

Revolutionary Genealogy

The water is falling, surrendering over the wet rocks. It is teal
blue in the moonlight. The brightness of summer touches the
midnight blue sky. I remember my cousin speaking. One wall is
windows in the room we are in. He sounds the same talking to
this room packed with people as he does when we stand alone.
He is wearing a faded denim shirt and jeans. His hair is braided,
silver runs through it now. He has large hands, with long fingers
and he traces the air as he speaks. His hand flows downward as
he talks about water, how it symbolizes humility and how humble we have to be to do this work. He says that water is flowing
underneath this building we are sitting in now. We are on ground
level facing the lush green sunlight filled woods. I feel grateful
when it is my turn to speak as I have followed my Elder,
Kayendres and three chiefs, beginning with the eldest.
I am the youngest - the water is flowing in the right direction.

When we trace out
our family tree
we must look for
those whose tombstones,
made of wood or
a broken pot with flowers
long ago became earth again.
We must search
in invisible archives
for the un-named, the un-recorded
for the silent ones
not described
in any book.
For our revolutionary
genealogy
must have nothing
to do
with the tyrants,
the greedy,
the wealthy,
the generals,
the sons of (ig)noble
families.
To be known well
by history
nine times out of ten
is to be
an aggressor
or, if not that,
the child of aggressors
living from a bloody legacy,
from crimes
brushed aside.

78

79

Jack Forbes

Jack Forbes

or fornicating
dukes.

How do we sing the praises
of the good
of the plain people
of the ones
who never stole enough
to buy a page of history?

It does not seek connections
with the wicked
but rather
it might be a
genealogy
of slaves,
Mabel, age 21,
yellow-colored
with a scar on her
right arm
and a limp,
has run away
from her owner,
a reward
will be paid
for knowledge
of her whereabouts.

How do we honor
the forgotten women
the ones punished
by patriarchy
their family names
often
not even so much
as written down?
Or the ones who died young
in childbirth?
Or the ones who never
had a chance to
learn to write
a diary?

A genealogy
of tribes
for we cannot
discover
individual names,

Or the ones who never
earned enough
to pay taxes?

A genealogy
of villages,
of mountain ridges,
because the records,
start only in 1790,
or 1650,
or 1900
and the ancestors
have fused together
into the fold
from whence they come.

Or the ones whose memory
was wiped out
by the conquest
of our tribes?
(or by slavery's silence)?
Revolutionary genealogy
does not
chase after
noble titles
family crests
80

81

Jack Forbes

Jack Forbes

our ancestors
married each other
as cousins did
among the aristocracies
(keeping estates held tight
among related idiots).

Genealogy cannot
for us
be the illusion
of false pride
in people
whose behavior
we would
or should, disown.
The genealogy of the ruling classes
is fake, for sure,
since only mother's
can be known
for certain,
father being often
rapist or
night-travelling lover
giving un-sumamed sperm,
perhaps the butler even.
And mathematics tells us
that each one of us
had 16 great-great grandparents
born of32
born of 64
born of 128
born of256
born of 512
and that was only ten generations
back
or 250 years.
And in 1492 each of us
had
mathematically
264,000 ancestors
born of
528,000 parents
unless, of course,
82

It is whole tribes
from whom we stem
from entire watersheds
and basins,
even from entire continents
since migration
is ancient
as well as recent.

Revolutionary genealogy
will include the earth
our mother
from whence we came
and the salty water
which is our nature
and the plants
and animals
which form our flesh
and the sun and the air
which give us life
and the birds which sing our songs
and the friends who make it all worthwhile.
So now
let us tum
from false bourgeois genealogy
to the real search
for origins
which must always
lead us back to sperm and eggs
to nature and to nurture,
to the people
83

David A. Groulx

Jack Forbes

to the tribes
to the slaves
to the suffering
and struggling
and ordinary lives
from which even kings must have once come.

PENEMUE AND THE INDIANS
We are the ghosts
of our grandfathers
and grandmothers
we are life lived again

Let us find
our unknown foreparents
our ancient grandmothers
our ancient grandfathers
in their houses of thatch
and grass
and skin
and earth
in the clay and stones of our Mother's body
and honor them
with the songs
of our deeds.

We are the knot
between the past and the future
we are string
binding our grandfathers
to our grandchildren

As we seek justice
we seek them out
As we create beauty
we honor them.
As we liberate the world
in which we live
we liberate them.
· As we end the suffering
of people today
we give meaning
to the suffering
of all those,
our relations,
who have given us this life.
Tepi lahapa
84

85

....
Lenore Keeshig-Tobias

Lenore Keeshig-Tobias

Letter Excerpt

The Minotaur

Bojoh

Warm sunshine, blue
water and children's laughter
- a picnic on the shore.

Here's The Minotaur.
It's context may interest you: this is a dream I had sometime before the issue of "cultural appropriation" made
headlines. While the dream was exhilarating and I gained
a real sense of my own personal power and awoke feeling triumphant, I was nevertheless cheesed-off that this
non-Native monster had invaded my dreams. I would
rather have faced a windigo! After relating this dream to
Daniel Moses, he commented "so, you're a warriorwoman." Then during the whole "cultural appropriation"
thing, especially during those times when I felt so alone
and helpless, I armed myself with Daniel's comment, and
drew great strength from this dream (now poem) and did
what I could with what little I perceived I had - no one
was going to bully me or my people (haha)!
I give thanks to this dream and that nasty ole Minotaur
for giving me power and testing my strength. Now, I give
this dream to you.

And then he bellowed
from across the bay, that
creature. From somewhere
in the trees he
roared, again.
He thundered once more and
broke through the bush,
waded into the water,
planning to make
our picnic his.
Our men were not
with us, and those who were
feared this - this
bull beast of a man.
Closer he surged and
closer, through the
water, making for our point.
What were we to do?
I picked up a small
child, instinctively,
held the cherub
in the crook of my arm
and turned to face this
belligerent monster.
Showdown! This was
going to be good.
He would never know,
I hoped, how
vulnerable I was.
I picked a sprig of
snake berry bush too,

86

87

Lenore Keeshig-Tobias

Kimberly L. Blaeser

and held it out
before me as
I walked, as I
moved to thwart
that bull-beasty man.

Studies in Migration
Pulled into Joe Olson's landing. Patterns of the past leaping
before us like the frogs caught here for fishing. With the force of
long history they return. Welling up in the iron scent of spring
water. Pooling amid last falls leaves. Slowly seeping into tennies
worn through at the big toe.

Not too close though.
He would have to
challenge me first...
and he did.
And he did not
know how
defenseless I was.

Each year someone comes home. Pat moved in next to her dad.
Von settled on Grandma's old land. Laurie Brown, gone since
after the war, came back that same year as the trumpeter swans.
Pelicans have been filtering in for seven summers. Today they fill
the north quarter of South Twin. The evening lake black with
birds.

By the power
of this bush which
has touched menstrual blood
I forewarn thee
'
to leave, make tracks,
get lost, clear out!
For should
these leaves but
touch thee lightly,
touch thee slightly, thou
shalt weaken and die.
I goaded.

Each space held for years in stories. Waiting. Now reclaimed.
Your name was never empty. We could have told them. We kept it
full of memories. Our land the color of age.
Clouded titles fill courthouse files. But spring sap spills out just
the same. Boiled in family kettles. Cast iron blackened over
decades of fires. Some walk these woods seeking surveyors'
marks. Some fingers trace old spout scars.
And flight the birds could tell us is a pattern. Going. And coming
back.

He laughed
me to scorn, that man What menstrual blood!
Har har!
But I held my ground.
The beast stepped
forward and I did too.
He would never know
how helpless
I was.

88

89

Stolly Collison

Pansy Collison

My Mom

The Greatest Mentor In My Life
"My Dear Precious Grandmother"

•••••
•••••
• • • • •
•••••
•••••
•••••
•••••
•••••
•••••
•••••
•••••
•••••
•••••
•••
My mom is special. She loves

me and my little brother. My mom

goes to university and she is

always studying and reading. Mom

is a teacher. Now mom is going

to do her Masters. I think mom

is really smart. Mom sings Haida

songs. She is writirtg a book about

our Nonny I like it when

my mom takes us to the park

and go to eat at McDonalds. When I

grow up I want to go to university

just like my mom. I love my

mom. She is the best mom in

the whole world.

90

My name is Pansy Collison. My Haida name is "Oolong-kuthway." The Haida interpretation for my name means "Shining
Gold." This name was given to me by my late Grandmother,
Amanda Edgars. She was the greatest teacher and mentor in my
life. In the Haida language, we call our grandmothers, Nonny.
Since I was a young girl, Nonny Amanda has been teaching me
the Haida songs, language, traditions and culture. She was the
'Matriarch' for our family. She knew all the Haida names for various families, and she was full of knowledge about the stories,
legends and traditions of the Haida people. Nonny was always
willing to teach anyone who was willing to learn the Haida culture. I am very fortunate that I took the time to listen and learn
the stories from the most wonderful and precious Haida teacher
I've had in my life.
Nonny Amanda was born at Kung, Naden Harbour. She was
born March 10th, 1904. Her Haida name is "Wath-ul-can-us."
The English translation means "a lady with much knowledge,"
which is indeed an appropriate name for my grandmother
because she was filled with the knowledge of Haida history and
traditions. She had two sisters and one brother. Her sisters' names
are Mary Bell (born 1911) and Minnie Edgars (born 1915). Her
late brother's name was Ambrose Bell (born 1913). Nonny's
mother's name was Kate Bell and her grandparents' names were
Mary Guulay Bell and John Gaayaa Bell (born 1847). Mary
Bell's second husband's name was John Glaawaa. Mary and John
Bell had five sons and three daughters. This is how I must explain
our family history so everyone will understand our family lineage.
Nonny Amanda is from the Eagle Clan. She originally comes
from Kung. She was the oldest niece therefore, she was passed
the traditonal territory of all the land on Kung and Salmon River.
In 1934 she put on a house dinner and invited all the Chiefs and
Elders to announce she was keeping the land in her name until the
Jath-lon-us people picked a Chief. Nonny explained it was important to pick a Head Chief who is leader for the Clan, and Chief
for the territorial land of Kung and Salmon River. Nonny
91

i

ii,I/·
1,

,,

··1·11.i

i

I

I
Il

Pansy Collison

Pansy Collison

Amanda's people also came from Jath, which is located on
Langara Island. She was the matriarch for the Jath-lon-us tribe
because she knew all the Haida names for different families and
clans. She knew the family background and the crests of many
families. Many Haida people came to Nonny for advice and
direction or simply for information. She was a very knowledgeable and respectable lady. She knew how to speak the "old"
Haida language and she knew many Haida legends and stories
about lands, territories, customs and traditions.
She was married in the traditonal Haida custom way. In the
Haida custom a person from the Eagle Clan cannot marry a member of another Eagle Clan. The only time this is acknowledged is
when the male person gets adopted to the opposite clan. Nonny
Amanda's uncles, Phillip, John, Peter, Frank and Louis Bell
chose her husband. Her husband's name was Isaac Edgars (born
1902). In the Haida language, we call our grandfathers Chinny.
Chinny Isaac was from the Raven clan. He was originally from
Yan Village, which is located directly across from Old Massett
Village. Chinny Isaac had three brothers and one sister. Their
names are Joe Edgars, Timothy Edgars, Jimmy Edgars and his
sister's name was Irene Edwards.
When I was about twelve years old, our house burned down,
and we had no other place to live until our house was rebuilt. This
is when we moved into my Grandparents' house. This became the
start of my learning about the Haida culture and language. Nonny
would tell me stories about when she was growing up. She said
that when she was a young girl she travelled all over the Queen
Charlotte Islands with her parents and grandparents. They travel
led with the seasons and harvested and stored foods for the winter. She remembered when they camped at Tow Hill to dig clams.
They would dry the clams on sticks and they would have rows
and rows of clams drying in the sun. Her parents and grandparents worked at Naden. When the work was finished at Naden,
they travelled to North Island and went up the Inlet to work at
Shannon Bay. During the summer they would salt salmon and dry
salmon. They also picked an abundance of berries which were
dried or canned in jars. In the month of October they smoked deer
meat. In late April, the whole family went on a boat across to Y~n
Village to pick seaweed. Nonny said they would pack a gigantic

picnic basket full of food. The whole family and many other
Haida people camped at Yan Village to pick seaweed. They dried
most of the seaweed on huge rocks and half dried the rest of the
seaweed and then packed them into boxes. Nonny said, "This was
a fun time," when all the kids worked together and picked seaweed. Then all the children played together, and the adults sat
around the fire and told stories. This was an enjoyable time when
the children played and the other families shared their food.
Nonny said that during those days, everyone would get together
after they had enough food supply for the winter and they wouldhave a potlatch. She said the Jath-lon-us family would pack baskets of food to one camp and different families took turns providing the food for the potlatch. As she reflected back to her
younger days, she said "Everything was so good. Everyone
shared and helped one another during those days."
As I grew older into the adolescent years, I realized that
Nonny was teaching me many traditional values and Haida customs by telling me different stories and legends. This was how
she was brought up by her mother, uncles and grandparents. She
said the Haida people did not write anything down on paper. The
stories, legends, customs and traditions were taught in an oral tradition. Nonny said, "The Haida people always explained their
family lineage and family names in a potlatch, so everyone present in the potlatch will know their names and which territory or
land belonged to them. The people present were the witnesses of
the names that were given to individuals, the naming a new Haida
Chiefs, as well as adoptions, crests and songs of families, and
ownership of various land and territories. This is how the history
was recorded, it was etched in the minds of all the people, so they
can remember the history and pass it on to their own children and
grandchildren."
Nonny Amanda was an extremely gifted and talented woman,
Nonny knew how to weave hats and baskets out of cedar bark.
She also knew how to crochet jackets, blankets and vests. She
used buffalo wool to crochet jackets and she also used the fine
crochet cotton to crochet beautiful table spreads. I remember I
Was a teenager when she started to teach me how to crochet. It
didn't take too long to learn because I would sit and watch her
crochet for a while and then I would copy her.

92

93

Pansy Collison

Pansy Collison

Nonny always said, "It is important to listen and it is important to watch." I realized when she was teaching me how to crochet that listening and watching were two important skills which
were to become very important elements in my daily life. As a
teacher, it is important that I listen to the concerns of my students,
the advice and knowledge of other teachers, and to the wisdom of
the Elders. I became a very observant person by watching others.
Often, I analyze different situations before I speak. I also use
these skills to observe the students I am presently teaching.
I eventually learned how to crochet many different items such
as bedspreads, baby blankets, baby clothes and tissue covers. One
of the most important lessons Nonny taught me about making
button blankets or regalia is: "Always put the eye part on last. In
our family clan, we believe that when we put the eye part on last,
the Eagle (or whatever design) will open up its eyes and thank us
for keeping our history and traditions alive." When I teach the
wonderful art of 'button blanket making,' I always teach the history of blanket making and how the Haidas make the colours red,
black and white.
Nonny Amanda was a composer of Haida songs. She composed Haida songs about her life, her children and grandchildren
and about where she travelled. She was extremely knowledgeable
in the songs and dances of the Haida people. In 1962, she started
the dancing group called, "Haida Eagle Dancers." This is how I
started learning the Haida language. Nonny Amanda started
teaching me many Haida songs. This was a very inspiring learning experience because she would sing the songs to me and then
she would interpret the Haida language into English. This seemed
to be a natural learning process because I enjoyed learning the
Haida songs. Nonny said, "Songs and crests tell everyone where
you come from and which territory you come from. They are
important symbols of our identity. No one can sing another family's songs and no one can wear another person's crests, unless
they have permission from the appropriate owners of the songs
and crests. It is just like stealing, when someone else sings the
songs that belong to a certain family." Nonny Amanda reflected
back to her grandfather's days. She said they had big wars if anyone else sang their family songs or wore their family crests. She'd
say very sadly, "Today is very different, some people sing any
songs and put different words in them."

I became extremely motivated by my grandmother's enthusiasium to teach me the Haida songs. I made it a habit to go to visit
Nonny everyday after school to learn the Haida songs. Some of
the Haida songs I learned were called: Welcome Song, Eagle and
Raven Song, Men's Strength Song, Haida Love Song, Happy
Song, Grandchildren Song, and Mourning Song. I also learned
many other children's songs. She also taught me some songs in
the Chinook language. Nonny said, "Each song has a very important meaning." For example, the Grandchildren Song tells how
much the people love their children and granchildren. Words cannot express this love, so they want to squeeze their children really hard to tell them how much they love them. When I first
learned this song I was about twelve years old. I did not understand the meaning of the words. Now I understand what this song
means because I have my own two precious children. I always
want to hug them really hard to show them how much I love
them. Now I have the same feelings that Nonny had when she
was surrounded by her grandchildren. The "Mourning Song" is a
very sad song which is only sung when a loved one has passed
away or when the family holds a Memorial Potlatch for the loved
one. The "Hunting Song" also has a special meaning. The women
are singing the song for the men who went out hunting. When the
men are out hunting, they cannot think of their family or they will
not catch any game. One of the Haida songs I really enjoy singing
is called the "Happy Song."
I love to sing Haida songs. It makes me very happy to be able
to sing songs and to be able to share my knowledge with people
who are willing to listen. Nonny said, "I will teach you and
Margaret the Haida songs. It is important that the songs are carried into each generation in our family." She said, "The songs tell
stories about our family lineage and where our families come
from."
Nonny was a very energetic lady. When she was teaching the
members of the Haida Eagle Dancers, she would show them how
to move their feet, arms and body. She would say, "Watch me, see
how I move my feet and arms." I felt very honoured because
Nonny insisted that I start singing the Haida songs right from the
beginning of when the group was organized. Aunty Margaret
Hewer, Nonny Amanda and I were the main singers and drummers. Eventually, I became the organizer for the group and we

94

95

.1

I

i

/

I

I

.'I

Pansy Collison
E. K. Caldwell

started earning our own funds to travel to different places in
British Columbia. We also travelled to Germany, Hawai'i,
Ottawa, and various towns throughout Alaska. Every time we
performed our dances and sang the Haida songs in different
cities, we ensured we wore our traditional Haida regalia. We were
proud to share our Haida traditions and culture. Nanny Amanda
always said, "Stand up and be proud of who you are. Dance and
show the people who you are." Her words of encouragement were
truly inspiring to each member of the group and she instilled a
strong sense of pride in who we are. We danced and sang to show
the people that we are Haida people and that we are continuing
our powerful traditions and culture. We danced and sang to show
the people that our culture and language is not being lost.
This is my story about the most inspiring lady I have ever
known. Today I understand how valuable my grandmother's
teaching were. Now it is my duty to teach my children and the
members of the Jath-lon-us families the Haida songs and dances.
As I reflect back to my younger years when I went to visit my
Nanny Amanda, I always think what a wonderful learning experience and upbringing I had. I am always grateful for making the
time to listen to my grandmother and Elders. They are truly the
professional teachers in our culture and language. It is through
the wealth of knowledge and experience that they pass on orally
that we will survive as Haida people.
I end my story by giving advice to our young Haida people
and other members of the First Nations: "Listen to your Elders
and learn your traditions, culture and language. We must maintain our sense of identity through our legends, stories, songs,
names, territories, and languages. We must listen and learn from
our Elders.
Stand up and be proud of being a First Nations person."

SISTER PRAYS FOR THE CHILDREN
(For Juanita)
a round baby boy rides her hip
his dark eyes intent
searching everything
distracted momentarily
by the shape of his own hand
another boy tugs her skirt
then
impatient
urgent at her elbow
this one's smile can blind the sun
his scowl can block the moon
something's cooking
almost always
insistent phone rings
might be more sickness
or more trouble
more needs than can be met
regardless of good intention
it should be said
it's not always bad news
bad news is just more easily remembered
cluttered table
dog eared paperwork
endless and so often confusing
takes time away from living
we all laugh easily
at one another and ourselves
some singer said
laughing and crying
it's the same release
and on most days
that is what we need

96

97

E. K. Caldwell

E. K. Caldwell

eyes wide and concerned
she tells a story
about children
too young to fend for themselves
depending on their wits
for survival
their parents' absence keenly felt
they are without the grown up words
to say it aloud.
hungry bellied
breaking into neighboring houses
raiding people's kitchens
trying to fill the emptiness
stray pups
travelling in tiny packs
too often kicked
and left unfed
become mean dogs.
her man shakes his head
"when we were kids
we could get fed
in any house we knew"
"sister" she says
"what can we do about the children?
our house is full most days
and commodities only go so far"
unshed tears shake her voice
my blood pounds
fears her heart could break
behind this
my own belly aches
sleep is too light
listening in the darkness
98

for the sound of hope
hearing desperate cries
of lonely children
abandoned to the future
on some days and nights
they suffocate my prayers
drowning them
leaving me hoarse voiced with effort
fatigued and fuzzy headed
this sister knows this in me
it is something we share
in the lives we lead
the phone interrupts
the round baby shifts his weight
the older boy has gone out
to play with the dogs
her man sits apart
still shaking his head
lined circles wrap his eyes
silence weighs down the smells of dinner
the baby watches her face
feels her in his heart
tiny chubby hand
lays lightly against her cheek
he smiles wide
clouds part
sunlight joins them
she hugs him close to her breast
making soothing noises
we all smile together
feeling blessed.

99

Barbara-Helen Hill

Sharron Proulx-Turner

gigue the jig the six-huit stitch

collective consciousness
as I stroll through woods
of sugar maple
their cover of crimson
gold ochre and green
now discarded
crackles under
my footsteps

funny how things go sometimes
when english is my father's tongue
and french my mother's too
I guess I'm colonized pretty good
assimilated too

Alleghany Mountains surround me
worn and rugged
their faces hold many stories
their aura touches and comforts me
the earth in her glory
soft and warm with birth and death
invites me
sit for a while and rest
listen to the gentle winds
drifting through the trees
I hear those voices
words that float
on breath
from generations past
I am told they are veiled
yet I see them
dressed as pilgrims
and traditional Iroquois style
English, Scots, Irish and French
mix with Mohawk Oneida, Cayuga and Seneca
they are visions
for those who see
they are voices
for those who hear
they bring stories
told for generations
that one day I will tell

which is what they like to think
I have a cousin who's a priest
a roman catholic priest
his name is jean-claude proulx
he's a very busy guy
he knows a bit about the grandfathers
the grandmothers too
but more about the grandfathers
being he's a boy
and so I ask him can he share
he says for sure
to put it in my book
he lives pretty far away so he says he'll write
it takes him quite a while
he knows he'll be more than an hour at his computer
and he doesn't have the time
they keep him very busy with the church
he likes his quiet time he says
his cottage on a lake where he goes to be alone
he likes to collect things which are old
much older than the church
a bronze buddha and an oil lamp from an ancient punic tomb

100

101

Sharron Proulx-Turner

Sharron Proulx-Turner

and the grandfathers pass his way
a bedside table from a.g. bell
a british empire box-style desk
from the officer at the conquest of india
which is what they like to think
jean-claude has a list of the grandmothers and grandfathers
that's longer than your arm
he gives this to me and I write to him that
it's just what we need to trace our metis bloodlines
back and to our roots
our roots before the second fellow founds quebec
before the first fellow sails the seaway bleu
my cousin writes me back and asks is he a metis too
which he punctuates with three question marks
then tells some stories
of things passed on his way
mostly by the grandmothers

rosina moves to ottawa with napoleon proulx
after the wedding day
three years after the fire comes across the bridge and
into ottawa from hull
down booth street til it hits the marsh
over by where they make that man-made lake
napoleon saves his parents from the fire
suspends them in the well
saves the american ginger-bread clock too
the ginger-bread clock which marks the time
the time the grandmothers and grandfathers decide it's time
to assimilate
which is what they like to think
red river settles that one pretty good

because three brothers shot two sisters too
because the grandmothers whose hearts are fairly broke
too dangerous to say you 're indian

mostly about the grandfathers
whom he knows
rosina from thurso gives jean-claude a red sash
which is nine feet long

because the children suffer
because the indian act
too indian to say you're not dangerous

francois xavier lafrance wears this to impress exilda
on the wedding day
it's the peak of summer in curran quebec in 1864
he wears the sash over the jacket of his suit
which has no buttons
jean-claude wears this sash too on very special occasions
which rosina shows him how
102

napoleon learns from his father who is antoine proulx
to drum to jig
to hunt to fish to offer tobacco too
to plant three sisters com squash and bean
to pray to mary joseph and jesus too
napoleon learns from his father how to clean that clock
103

Sharron Proulx-Turner

Sharron Proulx-Turner

on norman street in ottawa he teaches jean-claude too
which he plays the wheels as spinning tops

two generations two ways to work the cloth her mother's and her
own mothers daughters sisters friends

while napoleon wipes them clean of cooking grease
and reassembles all the parts

rosina who's a poet
who recites pauline johnson while
she is reading her blanket with her hands

napoleon starts to work when he's just twelve years old
running on the logs
the logs jammed up on the ottawa river
which is very wide
his first day there

no woman in canada
has she but the faintest dash of native blood in her veins
but loves velvets and silks
as beef to the english-man
wine to the frenchman
fads to the the yankee

he's gifted with two pipes
tobacco too
an old indian his uncle shows him how to carve a pipe
bark trunk and branch intact
from cherry wood
he grows tobacco too
rouge quesnel and parfum d'italie
which is very strong stuff
in the gardens by his home
makes his old leather mitten into a tobacco pouch
tobacco he keeps moist in earthenware whose
lid's a little cup
a little cup for cedar chips to light from the wood stove
and burning sacred cedar
by the old wood stove
as she stitches squares of velvet
is rosina who's a poet who talks to tree and bird and stone
who talk to rosina too
who tells long stories while she weaves

so are velevet and silk to the indian girl
be she wild as prairie grass
be she on the borders of civilization
or having stepped within its boundary
mounted the steps of culture even under its superficial heights
there are those who think they pay me a compliment in saying
that I am just like a white woman
my aim
my joy
my pride
is to sing the glories of my own people
ours is the race that taught the world that avarice veiled
by any name is crime
ours are the people of the blue air and the green woods and
ours the faith that taught men and women to live without
greed and die without fear

crazy-patch quilt squares from velvet dresses
104

105

Henry Michel

Annette Arkeketa

the terms of a sister
begins in the womb
we swim
towards a nation
umbilical reach
blue infinity
severed by lightning
striking the core
of this hemisphere
we emerge
brown as earth
red as sun
children of chiefs
medicine women
this is me
this is you
power preserved
to ignite
the darkness

Finding The Inner Edges Of Life
Was it yesterday or that long ago
we began the search inward
to find each other
to find life's essence
that bums
in love
and
in hate
that bums in you
and in me
to find the spark that rekindles the beautiful
essential element of humanity
life
It was a cold long hard wintry journey
of salt licked tears and wounds
turned to showers of laughter
as new growths of ourselves mingled
sparingly at first
and just as yellows greens & blues of spring
attacks the hill sides ... with passion
you found the eruption of life
in the sounds of my laughter and I in yours
;11

:I(

And the tears that we shed together
were not stained red
with anger fear or shame ... any more
And we tore down the barriers of pain between us
And we found it was all for love ... all for life that we were here
And we realized that our winter was not the only cold hard story
that needed to find spring

106

107

ii
!

I
I

',.1·:

i

Henry Michel

Joanne Arnott

And we understood that even though new blossoms of life spring
up
all over our inner meadows
it marks already new signs of winters yet to come
But there will be magnificent springs
and magnificent winters will follow
and
we will celebrate them
together
And I will never be ...
and you will never be ...
anyone else's long hard winter again.

Birth
ten years ago
i did this
ignorance and fear
holding my skin and bones
so close
1 was
tightly woven
spring in the form
of an old man infant
surging slowly through
burrowing
wakening
carvmg
a way out
into the world
five years ago
i did this
standing on my toes
then coming down on to
the palms of my feet
to be solid and strong
being as big as i can be
holding my ground
making space
for the arrival of
an old man infant
in the sudden
pale guise
of a thunderbolt
two and a half
years ago
i did this
hunkered down in a rented tub
kids at summer camp, we were

108

109

Joanne Arnott

Joanne Arnott

a baby is coming, a baby!

desperado-nurturer

family drifting through
the house, children
swirling
up and down the stairs
as an old man infant
drifted and swirled
into our world

i hang my tired self
from the steady frame
of your bones

four months ago
i did this
i called upon the grandmothers
to be with me
i know this task
with evey fibre of my being
i open close
midwife talking me through
says, it is safe
for you to do this
and the grandmothers
colour her words
it is sacred for you
to do this
sacred

second birth: i clutch
your two hands in mine
stare deep into the
dark safety
of your eyes
i stand alone
you walk around
and greet the child
third birth: you come
for the last time
naked with me
into the birthing place
guide the child
fourth birth: you stand near
not entirely with me
draped in more than clothes
i surprise myself by calling
your name out loud

near birth: we are scared
we do not trust this thing
the doctor says
you can do it
we say no

all of our grandmothers
are here

we honour the life that passes
unborn

all of our grandfathers
are standing behind us

first birth: we say
we can do this
maybe we can do this
i cling to you, my

all of our children are waiting
for this birth
110

111

Louisa Mianscum

Joanne Arnott

Grandmother/sweatlodge

Untitled
TELL ME ... What is Sacred? Of what is the Spirit made? What
is Worth Living for?
What is worth Dying for?
The Love for the Sacred/Spiritual/Living/Dying Land is ....

learning
returning
it is not fear of the dark
but of your wet heat

Quay! Hello! Bonjour! My friends know me as Louisa. I speak
Cree, English and French. I was baptised with the name Emily
Louise Mianscum. I was brought up on the land and taught to
respect everyone's spirituality. My mother's name is Charlotte
Rose.

which may be the
wet heat in me
i crawl
from your womb

My dad, Tommy Mianscum was a hunter/trapper, a friend, a
father, a man with a strong living heart, a busy man always on the
go. In February of 1986, as he crossed the road in Waswanipi on
my brother Sonny's brand new ski-doo, a car came from around
the bend at full speed and struck him. His plans that day had been
to dismantle his tent at a hunting camp. He died within fifteen
minutes. I own one thing from his living days ... his hat. I was
married that same year on July 26th. I miss him ... .

nourished
in surrender
i give thanks
for the lean shanks
of community

My wild and fun-loving uncle Samuel Capississit, hunter/trapper,
was struck and killed by a train (there were no warning bells,
lights or gates).
My 5 year old niece, beautiful, happy little red-haired Ruby was
on a toboggan during the Christmas holiday season. She was
struck and killed by a logging truck. Her best friends - my then
very young brothers, sisters, nieces and nephews witnessed this.
There are many more stories out there ... these are only a few of
mine.
So tell me ... is this "Progress" or is it "Separation?"

112

113

Brenda Prince

Crystal Clark

To Grandmother's House I Go
Grandma lives in
the downtown eastside
I walked there once
nine months pregnant
trying to bring
on labour
I passed Astoria
invisible to hookers on
their heroin bounce
From the corner
ofmy eye
a car slowly
followed
The driver
waved
me over
Drool dripped
from canine face
hunger in eyes
I gave him
the finger
Off he drove
into darkness
If I had a gun
like the hunter
I would shoot
him dead.

Untitled
grandma pours me a cup of red raspberry tea
with loose yellow leaves
swirling in vibrant midnight blue
sending sparks of fire to radiate around
when i kneel in mud
rubbing red across my crescent body
grandma pours me red raspberry tea
when i want to sleep all day
never leaving my dreams
lay in the stars
lay suckling in my mother's arms
and play peekaboo with my dad
grandma pours me red raspberry tea
when i want to lay cradled in the moon
watch over you
and paint my body with red from my womb
rub my fingers creating pictures
that pulse on the walls of my room
grandma pours me red raspberry tea
when i want to throw porcelain heads that sit on my shelves
shattering windows and mirrors that surround my bed
grandma pours me red raspberry tea
when i want to be a cat
swaying my hips
winning each stare
playing with invisible rainbow spirals
that linger in the air
grandma pours me red raspberry tea
on days when
i want to laugh with the children next door
forgetting the years i experienced before

114

115

Shoshana Kish

Crystal Clark

grandma pours me red raspberry tea
on days when i quiver
tasting salt tears
longing for random words
to send sensual waves
that lull still moments

Untitled

grandma pours me red raspberry tea
warming unborn babies
that cry
mama make this world soft
with soothing sounds of drums
and clean water swooshing around
causing blows in my stomach
to send me to the floor

Here she gave birth to herself
and then to a son
Here is where she opened her folds
of shrouding to
him
and found soft
fresh
flesh
touched
and alive

grandma pours red raspberry tea
on my crescent back
cascades across my lips
lingers into my body
spirals in my belly
steeps inside
floats through my veins
sits quietly on my skin
so i can walk strong
with hands sending sweet songs

She sees the world through a veil
mist mountain
draped against
silk sky
This is her sanctuary

She clothes her self in sacred colour
Red
Yellow
Black
White
Dances them into song
Sings them into breath
Breathes them
Life
It is her son

that weaved this awakening
for nine months within her
It is him that danced
against the walls of her womb
and sang as she slept
so that she could dream the dream awake
And when he sang his first breath
she dreamed
and all of those before her
dreamed the same joy
Life is sacred
Life is sacred
116

117

IDENTITY

Thomas Edwards

Native American
aoor1g1n~J .noble

_dark ~ca~g~

chie!J • .·

w.·

arno:Amer1nd

] fl U ] 8 flPnncess

.· ir l Nalidffs

::nd1genous
The People

msnkin

drunkenindian •.

red

121

.

.

Thomas Edwards

Chandra Winnipeg

"Who am i ?"

Innateness OF Being

this piece is centered around the concept of 'labels,' whether
these are self-identified or externally imposed upon ourselves.
across the country, across the continent, these labels change with
each new border we cross.

I'm
Indigenous!
I see, feel, think,
dream, read, talk and
sense or am I just being.
To me, I am not ashamed, lost,
drunk, disgusted, stupid and smelly
or am I just being. Sometimes I think
I am an animal. I live, eat, play, compete,
sleep and survive or am I just being. Most times
I dream of wide oceans, big mountains, green trees and
long rivers. Part of me must be a bird. Must fly the skies
to see. Sun, I like a big hot sun. Tums me darker and darker
reminds me of who I am. I think I am a sun dog. Eagle, I like a
bald eagle. An eagle sits atop a tree by my house. I watches me,
reminds me of who I am. I remember
I
am
Indigenous!

it is hard finding ourselves, with no clear consensus from our
Indigenous leadership as to who we are. it is only in the last few
generations that Indigenous People are finally demanding that
their own labels be used by the mainstream culture, but it is still
regional. it is important that we gather as Indigenous communities and move beyond imposed political boundaries and share our
strengths and share our cultures before we get lost in isolation
and forget who we are.

122

123

Annette Arkeketa

Annette Arkeketa

native hum
I
rigoberta menchu tum, guatemala

in their morning coffee cafes
talking farm reports and riot L.A.
achromatic eyes graze
chewing the color
of hate

zapatistas, san cristobal de las casas,
chiapas, mexico

grandma, the pilgrims are afraid

oka incident, canada

III
femando hemandez sez
"native people do not
commit violence
easily"

haunani-kay trask, hawai'i
alabama-coushatta boys, livingston, texas
yanomamo massacre, venezuela

II

IV
solidarity drum
we are not afraid

epicenter chant
ripple floods
gorging stagnant dams
releasing their bowels
into the oceans
in the noble land
the red necks say
"let's all be american"
knowing not where they
are from
'just us"
is what they pray

124

125

Mickie Poirier

William George

Letter Excerpt

Cave Adventures

To me, "Standing Ground" means not ceasing to exist, to BE,
even when overwhelmed or overrun by others.

My soil soaked shoes stepped into the scant light. I made my
way through stale, musty vapours. My nose twitched. Irritation
enveloped me in this environment. Laid out before me, this omnidirected path was inter-connected and entwined with other paths.
I was down on my hands and knees. I crawled, scratching against
dirt and rock and clay. Kicked up dust blurred my vision, blurred
my sight. Tears trickled down my cheeks.
"What am I doing here?" I said out loud
I was supposed to have been learning about art, Indian art. I
was supposed to have been learning about history, history of
Indian art. I had been asked to bring in an artifact.
"Randy Streams, You are Indian. This symbols presentation
assignment should be no problem for you."
I wanted to correct the professor. I wanted to tell him I knew
nothing more than the other students. I wanted to tell him I had
no symbolic artifact. But he had learned from professional Indian
experts.
Now, here I was in these caverns, deep dimensions below the
surface. I was tunnelling through a musky cave. I had crawled
some of the way.
I inched along. It was that kind of pace. I searched for something that I believed lost.
All these intellectual contradictions impacted me. I wanted to
reconcile all these cerebral inconsistencies that surfaced within
contemporary reality.

I live it as a woman in a man-first world; as an artist facing attention- and importance-hungry 'admirer;' as a Metis naturalist
pushing back someday else's "now-I'm-supposed-to's" - supposed to be and think, supposed to do and say, supposed to have
and produce. It takes a lot of standing on a sometimes very small
pieces of 'ground' to just keep breathing.
My strength is nourished in the woods around me, in the birds in
my sky and in the animal people at my door and the sounds of all
in the wind.
I am with those who see Spirit in dust as well as in eagles. My
sense of solidarity comes from knowing you are, here and now.
I neither need, nor want, a crowd in my studio; but, I do need to
know that you exist and I do need to receive your communications, - verbal and visual.

Home, Brother Return

I had struggled with the whole concept of attending
University.
"University is just a different monster than other education
institutions."
Was I personally participating in a process that was first initiated five hundred years ago? Or was I accomplishing something
for the betterment of myself and my community? I didn't know
for sure, which.
126

127

William George

William George

A part of me insisted that I was marshalling resources to live
in this contemporary world. Resources which were internal, traditional, and modem in nature.
Yet another part of me screamed.
"You are going against the old ways!"
Now I looked for something to bring back to the Art History
class. As the sole native, I was expected to perform, to make an
earth shattering presentation.

I stood up from the cave's floor and walked towards the
entrance. I neared the opening. I stopped. I felt something dangling from my neck. My fingers quickly removed it. An intricate
carved Wolf figure hung from the leather strands. My uncle told
me once that the figure was already on the stone. What wasn't a
part of the figure was cut and chiselled away. But, where did this
one come from?
We Are Blood

We Are Brothers

I burrowed through the dark and narrow expanses of the cave.
I made my way through the tunnels, sometimes having to crawl a
distance.
"What am I doing here?"
Was I doing it only for the grade? Or was there another reason
for being in the cave? I continued on. I pored over the cave's remnants. I stayed, more out of the fact that I didn't choose to leave.
We Are Related

There were moments I felt I had heard something. Something
very faint. I had stayed up for two nights. Now, I convinced
myself there was no voice; the whisper had come from a place
very deep inside. I pushed myself further along the cave passage.
"I shouldn't be here. No mark is worth this. Even ifl do find
something, should I really bring it to class? I don't know. I
shouldn't be here."
Despite my own adamant protests, I stayed. I kneeled down on
the cave floor. I closed my eyes.
Aawooo ... ooo ... ooo
I kept my eyes closed as Takaya spoke.
"The blood that flows through your veins, is mine. Your greatgreat-grandfather and grandmother nursed on milk from Wolf
blood that flows through my veins."
I woke in the cave the next morning and immediately, I dismissed the encounter. I had fallen asleep and dreamed it.

128

Wolf had visited. In my time of need, Takaya had presented
himself. I no longer needed to be stressed out about my assignment. I had my symbol for the Art History presentation. I readied
myself to leave.
"No, this isn't right. Takaya gave me a gift. A personal symbol that represents a connection with Takaya, a connection with
creation. This is a message. Takaya and I are blood."
I reached down to the cave's floor. I picked up soil.
"Thank you Wolf. Now I know the real reason I came here."
I carried the handful of soil to class that afternoon. I walked
in there. I stood there in front of fifty people I really didn't know,
even after three months.
"Randy Two Streams, you may present your symbol."
I stood there in front of the gathered. I slowly moved my
closed hands in front of me.
"This is my symbol. This is my connection."
Soil flowed from my hands.

129

Lillian Sam

Lillian Sam

that travels between the
darkness and light

CHANGING TIME'S
I stand in the glass of time
What are the sounds of time?
What do I feel?
Birth a child strange to the world
A natural cry of fear
leaving my mother's womb
the cord has been cut
Yet, I bring with me
the voice of my ancestors
From the mountains their songs
echo into my generation
I feel the spirit of freedom
innocent
A child born on strange land
with many others

Sometimes the mountain
is veiled in darkness
I watch for the shaft
of the red sunset
to grace the tip of the mountain
Grandfathers I PRAY
as I kneel on the surface of
Mother Earth
I am only a traveller in TIME
Let the eagle speak
or the birds to whisper hope
in these changing times
IPRAY

I am a woman now
in many colours
I grasp at the beams of light
from all walks of life

I am learning See?
My Ancestors I am learning
I grasp at new surroundings
I learn to walk on this land
See? I am learning

I stand by the mirror
an allusion I say!
I have to find myself
in these changing times

I feel the changes in the time
ofmy youth
I see between darkness and light

I take out my tobacco and sage
IPRAY

My momma tells me
Child you are becoming a woman now
You have joined the cycle
of the moon

CREATOR I take refuge
in the solitude of nature
Trees stand quietly
as
I PRAY

A SACRED TIME
A VERY SACRED TIME

The rivers continue to
flow for generations
past and future
It carries my prayers on

Momma
I'm beginning to feel
the pain of others
130

131

Armand Garnet Ruffo

Lillian Sam

Portrait of a Heathen Considered

The Seasons have past
I am old and tired
I have gathered wisdom
I have cried out in pain
I have felt the sorrow of others
I cry too for the coming generation
Will they see the seeds of time?
Will they see the trees?
Will the waters be pure?
Will they hear the birds sing?

The glow is unmistakably red.
It could be dawn
but then it could be dusk
though judging from the sky near sunset.
Paintings such as these are dramatic by nature,
and red is the color of character.
My head is shaved and painted
(you guessed it: red).
My eyes steely, reptilian.
(after all this is a portrait).
My mouth severe, wordless.
My jaw rigid, metal
like my scalping club.

Then too
I wonder
Will they retain their
native identity?
Will they hunt the land
Like their ancestors in the past?
Will the young womans
carry their children
in the woods to pick berries?
Will there be laughter
by the sores as the
womans bring in the salmon?

The woman I am holding
by one white porcelain arm
has aptly swooned.
Her dress is in slight disarray
though not provocative by any stretch of the imagination.
(That is for another day.)
Fear glistens her brow.
Her face is fixed on a distant nimbus:
could it be, yes, it is,
a horse and rider,
under the cover of cloud,
her protectorate, her angel of god,
brandishing pistol and sword,
thundering down with all bravado
of legend.

Yes! My answer
floats down the river
SACRED WATERS
that are blessed by the
prayers of our ancestors
Their spirit will see
us through these changing
TIMES

This is not a pastoral scene.
No English cottage country.
No Lake Windermere languidly rolling by.
No sheep lulling in the background.
This is America 1700 or thereabouts.
The message is clear.
It is a pose
the artist expects us to hold.

132

133

Faith Stonechild

Joanne Arnott

Untitled

Remember

I started sewing when I was a young girl. I always felt secure with
a needle and thread.

Remember that you are
a good woman
grown from a perfect child
remember
all of your hopes and dreams
not forsaken
still possible

As time passed I started drinking. It totally destroyed me. I started smoking and got into heavy drugs. I guess heavy drugs
weren't for me because I cramped up and started throwing up.
Many lonely times set in. My paranoia set in - thoughts of suicide-then finally the attempt - which landed me in a hospital. I'll
never do that again.

Remember that you are
completely deserving
all of the love in the world
is the net
that you stand upon

As time moved on, I made my way to Northern B.C. where I quit
drinking, returned to college and graduated with a nursing
Certificate in Long Term Care. yet I wasn't happy because I didn't have "EXPRESSION." Everyone needs to have "EXPRESSION" - whether it be sewing, cooking, writing, etc.

Remember that you are
a smart person, and wise
your feelings are
an essential guide
the clear heart of matter
beating out a rhythm
we can all dance to
you are a foundation
a generous loom
all of us are weaving
our lives around you

One evening in 1986 I was travelling through the mountains and
I got out of my car. I looked up, there was only a spot of light
away up there. Man! the mountains were giants and I was just a
grain of dust compared to them. I asked myself - who? - made
them so beautiful? That's when I realized there was a Creator and
started to get my shit together. "I humbled myself'. Since then I
have respected every living thing, and today I am trying to study
Ethnobotany, preferably the "Thompson." It's my way of paying
respect to these native peoples.

Remember that you are
a full woman
remember
that you are not
alone in this place
remember
all of your needs
all of your hopes
all of your dreams
are a potent fire
warming the world
lighting your face

I believe in truth. You save so much energy when you tell the
truth. I also treat people the way I want to be treated.
Keep a positive attitude - it helps.
I tell stories and my experiences in my sewing.
The broken woman symbolizes my dysfunction. The woman put
all together is the feeling of being whole.

134

135

I

Greg Young-Ing

Faith Stonechild

There was a lot of verbal and very violent physical abuse when I
was young and growing up. I bartered with my sewing for my
therapy - $85.00 - a session. I wanted to know why I drank?,
why I was violently mad when I drank?, to the point that it put
me in jail. Well, I found out! The healing started that day. I now
love myself. I am a good person.
A therapist can analyze you but can never be you or get in you. I
feel in order to heal, you have to let that out of yourself in
"Expression."
Each scrap or piece of my material I hold in my hands means I
am letting go. Every stitch I quilt is a tear-could be of happinesscould be of sadness. It calms me. I never fail to thank the Creator
for giving me hands and fingers to sew and eyes to see. Life is
like a patch quilt - each scrap of material useful - put together sometimes it gets worn-like we in life but you start another project - or recipe if you cook and this time it gets better.
Never let anyone make your quilt for you - do it yourself so you
can praise yourself. I cry when I finish a project, then I pray my
cushions go to good homes. All my work is smudged with sweetgrass; then I am happy and start on some more work.

I Didn't Ask
I didn't ask
to be born
into a surrounded family
I didn't request
an invasion
I didn't ask
to live
between uranium
and a hole in the sky
I didn't pray
for gravity
to keep me stuck
on the ground
with Eagle spirit envy
I didn't say
anyone should go
to the moon
I didn't ask
for 1 billion tons
of concrete
or a dirty glass
of fish head soup
I didn't run the entire species
over the buffalo cliff
or dig the earth for metal
to make a knife
for my tongue
I didn't enroll
for school

136

137

Greg Young-Ing

I didn't place an order
for two more languages
and send the second one back
I didn't want
foreign justice
or enter the judges court
or build a jail
for myself
I didn't dial 911
or call upon the troops

SPIRITUALITY

I didn't sleep
with the enemy
or fill out a census
or vote
I didn't beg
for money
or go
to the market
I didn't rise out of
and fall into
this ancient land
for grounded astronauts
and beached sailors
to live well
off the shorelines
for 5 centuries
into a new millenium

138

Raven Hail

Cherokee Invocation
Sge!
Hisga'ya Galun'lati
Great Father of Earth-People here,
Mighty Owner of Lands and all Waters
Who sends forth the Harvest each year;
Creator of all the world Creatures,
The Willow, the Wren and the Bear,
The Master of Thunder and Lightning,
of the Wind and the Rain and the Air'
Hear me,
Iya!
Hear my prayer!

141

Dawn Karima Pettigrew

Mahara Allbrett

Sally Stands Straight Stands Her Ground
Shocks the Salesians

Untitled
A dog barks and I wake up in the dark. I can hear birds singing
their cheerful and relentless morning song. I look over at the neon
light on my black digital clock radio, it's four A.M. I hear these
words, they seem to float up from the depths of the ocean deep
within my consciousness. "Sound is sacred. Sound is sacred." I
recognize the voice and the style - simple words - straight from
the one to whom I give thanks. I think about the man who is
teaching me to drum. He is big and dark like this night. He surrounds me like a flute surrounds the wind that blows through it to
make music. When I look down at his hand over mine I see that
we are two shades of the earth and I can relax in him. He is a
Spiritual Father. The first time that I hit his drum I became aware
that the drum vibrates. When I see him dance as he plays the
drum, I experience that the drummer, the stick, the dance and the
drum are one instrument. The instrument is God. Once I watched
a great spiritual teacher heal through sound - his voice and the
harmonium he was playing on the banks of the holy river. There
was a man sitting in front of him. I could sense the vibration travel from the love in his heart, to the reed of his throat through the
air to the one in need of healing. Tonight I read that the Yurok
people believe being true to yourself means giving your best to
help a person in need and being true to yourself is the one and
only law their people have.

Yes,
I know I am late.
Late to Mass,
Late to Mission,
Late,
so late,
to the Mayflower.
Yes,
I know how late I am.
I may be latest woman you know,
keeping your time and mine.
Two pulses,
two heartbeats.
My circle time surrenders
to hours struck from iron.
Straight lines win,
in the end.
I am late anyway.
This morning I entertained angels.
I was aware.
They wandered up the walk,
wrappped in beads and feathers,
let themselves in,
asked for oatmeal.
I saw glory in their faces,
and served them.

142

143

Dawn Karima Pettigrew

Dawn Karima Pettigrew

This morning I saved a burning bush.
I stopped to blow on the blaze.
The flame died,
tired as I right now am.
I would be late to Mass, again,
but I paused to whisper wado,
thank you,
and bandage its charred limbs.
This morning I greeted the sun.
I opened my eyes at dawn.
I blew kisses at creation,
smudged the saints.
I could have dressed for Mass right then,
made it in,
but I went to the window,
fancydanced.
In my own time,
I saw God.

Sally Stands Straight Scolds The Dominicans
Our words echo in the air
remembered by mountains,
told again by thunder,
as lessons in drumbeats,
and dance steps.
Jingle dresses carry our verbs.
Grass dancers are our poetry.
We have all the Rosary we need,
since eagle feathers shelter Scriptures.
Our confessions are in our eye,
watching weavers and warriors
lick their fingers clean of fabric and fire,
tasting God.
Our indulgences are in our ears,
bronze heads titled toward the worship in the whirlwind,
counting coup,
breathing God.
Our supplications are in our souls,
mothers and mankillers trade wisdom and weapons,
making master's degrees from a night by the fireside,
talking God.

144

145

Michelle Good

Michelle Good

Ancient Songs

Stone People

When isolation
is a sharp
cold wind,
and rain
needling despair,
your song
whispers its heartbeat,
insistent
til I hear,
above the raucous shrill
of modem man.
No surprise they kill
so easily
in this noise-begotten silence.
Above their clatter
they cannot hear
the ancestor's blood
running thick
through soil and stone
coursing wild
through sapling,
wild swan
and rusty toad.
Bird song sonatas
drowned in exhaust.
Proper thanks forgotten
in the high speed chase.
Then the sun spills
just so,
warmth spreads in pools,
and the heartbeat resumes
I hear you again
in your tireless voice,
first ear-straining murmur
then dream world strong
exhale,
relief,
return,
my tum
at Ancient Songs.

The stone people lay in the ember embrace
Preparing the sacred rite.
The flames dance languid
The smoke smell true
A blanket of god lays on the land.
Breath and smoke join the trail to the sky
Dusk warm on the distant horizon.
The brotherhood silent
Already in prayer
Awaiting the sacred, moist rolling heat.
Burned to the ground stones scattered and broken
Horse Soldiers know his own good.
In the silent ruin
Of a prairie dawn
My Grandfather buries his Pipe.
Wrapped in a blanket dipped in disease
Winter, a devastation.
The walls of our bellies
glued with ice
Or filled with fever's fire.
Springtime we stand in a crosshair shadow
Awaiting the great benediction.
Indentured to ploughshare
As dreams of redemption
Are sown in the minds of our children.
Summer bereft of the sea of ti pis
Rising on waves of prairie grass.
Last year's pole in the circle remains,
Eaglebone whistle still rings
In the heart of a spirit dancer.

Ii

146

147

l

Brenda Prince

Michelle Good

Fall and I've lost my skin and eyes
It's hard to find my brother.
Childless harvests ring empty and joyless.
Ghost faces with firelit stories
Haunt dreamlike, thin echoes, then vapour.
Snow, the earth fragile beneath my feet
Like ice on a winter puddle.
Intestines, blood and organs
Sucked out and burned, smoke stinging
Ears ringing with half sung songs.
Still I know how to find you
Through the violent mist and the mud.
Death by isolation,
We know our own relations
By their star-quilt made of ghosts.

Stars
Trillions of endless miles of them; numberless solar wind-whipped
flashes of stars, a thousand space-lulled galaxies of stars, a hundred
rippling universes, every ripple a gleam of scarlet or amber, emerald or turquoise, multicolored as rainbows, the colours shivering
over time and space in drops and splashes, the stars , some bright,
some dim, some pulsating, some steady making their own energy
as they live. There are star clusters where their great light shines in
intensity the strength of ten Earth suns; there are star constellations
whose formations merged with ancient people's minds, when
ancient peoples studied them and told stories of their gods. Stars,
where learned men and women foretold the future, where young
men and women sat and stared and fell in love, dreaming of things
that might be. Romantics all, of course. No scientists would stare at
stars and dream. Scientists have CD Roms for that, if they relax at
all.
Stars. Orion, the big dipper, Libra and Cancer. The Milky Way, the
path of souls where departing spirits travel on their way to the other
side. A progression of souls stopping to show their existence and
their way to the happy hunting grounds, leaving a sparkling sweep
of God's stellar paintbrush stroke of his creation. Multi-coloured
sequins sailing against the backdrop of northern lights.

And still, the little pipe sings.

"Northern lights, Native spirits dancing in the sky."
"How did they get there, Grandpa?"
Here, there, wide-scattered across the limits of time and space, are
the villages of our dead ancestors, walled to keep the living at bay.
Each village you can visit in dreams. Each village your long departed relations that you will recognize from unremembered dreams.
"You'll know these places from tiny glimpses when you were living."
"Is it heaven, Grandpa?"
Here, there, are your memories as wide scattered and elusive as the
stars are to scientists. Heaven is a lot closer for those who dream.
148

149

Lois Red Elk

OUR BLOOD REMEMBERS
The day the earth wept, a quiet wind covered the
land crying softly like an elderly woman, shawl
over bowed head. We all heard, remember? We were
all there. Our ancestral blood remembers the day
Sitting Bull, the chief of chiefs was murdered. His
white horse quivered as grief shot up through the
crust of hard packed snow. Guardian relatives mourned
in our behalf. They knew our loss, took the pain from
our dreams, left us with our blood. We were asked to
remember the sweeter days, when leaves and animals
reached to touch him as he passed by. You know those
times, to reach for a truth only the pure of heart
reflect. Remember the holy man - peace loving. He was a
sun dancer - prayed for the people, water, land and animals.
Blessed among the blessed, chosen to lead the people.
He showed us the good red road, the one that passes
to our veins from earth through pipestone. Our blood
remembers. He foresaw the demise of our enemy, the
one with yellow hair. Soldiers falling upside down
into their camp, he told us. Champion of the people,
a visionary, he taught us how to dream, this ancestor
of our blood. He asked us to put our minds together
to see what life we will make for our children - those
pure from God. Remember? Pure from God, the absolute
gift, from our blood, and blessed by heaven's stars.
And, we too, pure from god, our spirit, our blood, our
minds and our tongues. The sun dancer knew this,
showed us how to speak the words and walk the paths
our children will follow. Remember?

LANGUAGE

(On December 15, 1890, Sitting Bull was murdered outside his
home in South Dakota shortly after his arrest was ordered. He is
remembered by his people as a great man, a holy man and a
leader.)

I
)

150

.,

:l:·1
,'
.

J

Raven Hail

INDIAN TALK: Are You Listening?
Nearly five hundred years ago Cortes landed on the coast of
Mexico with 400 Spanish Freebooters. He sweet-talked a young
Mayan girl into serving as an interpreter and informer and, with
her help, persuaded thousands of Mexican Indian Warriors to join
him in conquering Mesoamerica. Gathering other Indians to his
cause he succeeded in looting the land and delivering it to The
Crown of Spain.
Such is the power of words!
With the continued encroachment on Native American boundaries, it is important to control the tongue.
"As silent as an Indian" is a well known phrase. Everyone
knows that the Native American is practically mute. Everyone,
that is, except the Native American. For, with the Cherokees,
there is a time to speak and a time to be silent. The time to be
silent is when in the presence of strangers. And when nobody is
listening anyway. It is not good to talk merely to enjoy the sound
of your own voice. The time to speak is when you have something to say.
Among the Cherokees the art of oratory was much prized right up there on a par with killing enemies in battle and stealing
horses. Any feat of bravery was followed by a ceremonial dance,
and everyone had a chance to tell the whole story of it- not once,
but over and over again if it was exciting enough. In fact,
Cherokees are probably the most talkative people on earth. The
language is very complex. There are twenty ways to say, "I think
it's gonna rain." Folks have been known to spend a whole evening
just discussing the details of the language itself. There are different words for your grandparent on your mother's side and the one
on your father's side. This is more important than you might
think, for, in the old days, one could marry only into those two
clans. There are any number of words for your brother - depending on whether he's older or younger than you, and whether
you 're a boy or a girl.
153

Raven Hail

Raven Hail

A verb does not have the usual tense of past, present, future,
and so on. The Cherokees have a different conception of time-it
goes round in a circle instead of in a straight line. One verb form
designates whether you personally observed an action, or if you
only heard about it from someone else. This has brought about an
interesting conversation piece among present-day Cherokees.
Many observed the moon-landing on their television screens. The
question is: Did we actually see it with our own eyes, or just a
photograph that was relayed on to us by someone else? Is it possible that some Sneaky Pete has perpetrated another gigantic
hoax?

Cherokees strive for a balance: half talk and half silence. An
interesting conversation between two people is when one person
talks only half the time and listens the other half; so that the second person is given equal time. Talking should be a sharing experience, not a monologue.
Only if I spoke with forked tongue would I demand both
halves in the Time-Sharing of a conversation. I have filed in my
mental computer one of my mother's sage sayings: "Keep your
eyes and ears open, and your big mouth shut!"
And: "Speech is silvem; silence is golden!"

Much of the Cherokee speaking ability has been lost in translation from one language to another. There was an old Cherokee
man hauled into an English-speaking Court of Law. When the
Judge (through a Translator) asked him, "Do you beat your
wife?" he started out speaking gently, but as he got into the spirit of the thing, he rose and gesticulated wildly for a quarter of an
hour, ending up by slamming his fist on the rail before he at last
sat down.

However, all seriousness aside, I was brought up on this
humorous quip:
WHEN WE TAKE THE COUNTRY BACK FOR THE INDIANS,
WE'RE NOT GONNA SHOOT NOBODY - WE'RE GONNA TALK 'EM TO DEATH!

The Translator translated into English: "He says NO."
From the Indian viewpoint, here are some statements from
The Drum, a nineteenth century Cherokee Chief:
"White people talk too much and too loudly; they never take
time to listen."
"Silence is the language of wisdom."
"In silence we can hear the voices that must be felt with the

heart rather than with the ears."
"In silence (The Great Spirit) gives us his most important
messages."
Which is remarkably the same as the Judeo-Christian Bible
quotation: "Be still and know that I am God." (Psalm 46: 10).
154

155

,,,ji

Gerry William

Lee Alphonse

Native Literary World Views: A Personal Essay

Our Language
this is a word
this is a worLd
your I is an eye

This Page
Dearest paper,
I can see how an oral tradition is connected to environmentalism.

156

An impressive title, but what does it mean? I've taught native
literature to native students for five years, and am just starting to
see more than the proverbial trees in the forest. I wonder how
much more difficult it must be for non-natives to see the forest. I
think about the difficulties in bridging the gap between traditional native storytelling, and writing as a method of expression. The
two are separate and distinct, each with its own internal complexities, each with its own directions.
Then I pick up the newspaper and find yet another non-native
analysis of native literature. And, yes, the predictable result. Of
the five books reviewed, the reviewer likes the only book written
by a non-native. The four native writers are judged lacking in
some way. There is a deficiency in their world view. They don't
use the same techniques- or they use literature in a different way,
and towards a different purpose, than those techniques with
which the reviewer is comfortable .
The result? White writers one, native writers, zero.
As a writer myself, I search for analogies. It's like a doctor
being criticized for her work by a carpenter. Or like a carpenter's
work being criticized by a doctor.
Or perhaps it's like they insist. Don't censor white writers.
Don't tell them what to write, or not write. Freedom of expression, man. The individual's right to express their personal views
over those of their communities. You've heard it before. The same
logic is used to tedious (and devastating) effect regarding the gun
laws in the United States.
They know not what they write.
Maybe it's good to be representative of your culture - even
when your culture is running desperately short of answers. If
your culture is falling apart, and the 'nuclear' family is breaking
apart, then maybe your writing should reflect Yeats' maxim where the centre is no longer sought in the community, but in the
individual.
But I'm part Shuswap, part Okanagan, two native cultures in
which the group, and its importance, is reflected by, and in, the
individual. The person belongs to the family, and to the tribe, and
finds his or her meaning within those groups. Finding answers by
157

T

Gerry William

leaving home isn't the answer. Returning home is. Different cultures. Not European, nor the descendant of Europeans.
So I struggle to explain this to students looking for something
more than the European model of literature.
As a writer, I try to express this in the only way I can. Through
analogies.
Storytelling is a group process. A person tells a story to the
group, and the way he/she tells it depends upon the nature of the
audience. The heart of storytelling lies in the concept of sharing.
Not sharing in the European sense of sharing, but in the
Okanagan sense of sharing. People matter. The group matters. If
not more than, then certainly as much as, the storyteller.
I think of the effect of 500 years of European literature, freed
at its rebirth by Gutenbergs's printing press. For a time it was glorious. Sweeping canvases, the full range of characters, the complete range of society.
It lasted for more than three hundred years, until the centripetal forces of writing overcame the centrifugal forces. Until
the needs of the inner person overcame the needs of the social
world around the writer.
I'm putting this poorly. Let's put it another way. Shakespeare
and Tolstoy, Dostoevsky and Proust, Dickens and Balzac - they
all faced the world they lived in. They wrote about the paupers as
well as the kings, the beggars as well as the kings, the beggars as
well as the aristocrats. They faced outward as much as they faced
inward, faced their demons and angels, and saw pieces of each in
everyone.
But the years passed. Writers gradually sought answers less in
the world around them, than in the world within themselves.
Perhaps this was inevitable. Literacy, and its effects, are centripetal, are highly individualistic processes. Consider yourselves. When was the last time you read anything to someone
else, even your closest friend or family member? When was the
last time you saw an author writing anything public? Reading and
writing are mostly private acts, best done in the privacy of one's
own space, and best assimilated within that same privacy.
Consider generations of such behaviour. Consider that what's
passed on from generation to generation are the best thoughts and
feelings of people writing for invisible audiences. The centripetal
158

I
I

Gerry William

forces I mentioned earlier.
We're a world away from tribal storytelling. Perhaps the problems of this world stem from people looking inwards for answers.
For example, should one have the "right" to own a semi-automatic, when its only purpose is to kill people? Should such
"rights" be defended at the cost of the greater good?
I have a difficult time with literacy. I circle it like a predator,
trying to make words say what I mean. Looking outwards
towards the community is difficult to control.There's so much out
there. Maybe that's what modern literature reacts to. There's so
much out there that it's frightening, or can be. People react by
withdrawing. The vision narrows to just those types of people one
knows. Middle-class perspectives become "world" views, are
considered world-class.
We colour the rich as decadent, immoral, corrupt. We ignore
the desperately poor, or simplify their struggles into a process of
nobility. We retreat to suburbia, like modern cities, and create
worlds of porcelain, where character studies become supreme.
Look inwards, not outwards.
We deserve better from our writers. It can be done. It is being
done. But not so much in North America as in South America, not
so much in Europe as in Africa and New Zealand.
Harsh words, perhaps, and words which I'm not that comfortable with, for they draw lines in the sand. The I dare you syndrome. So I pull back. As a teacher, I owe it to my students to discuss why Europeans and their descendants feel comfortable
appropriating other cultures in the shaping of their own world
views. Never mind the contexts. That's another argument.
I struggle for analogies. Circle in the ways of my people, tackle issues from different angles. Is cultural appropriation simply
an extension of land appropriation? Is it so deeply rooted in the
conqueror soul of Europeans that it becomes inescapable?
Inevitable? Invisible because unspoken? An inherent right? The
bully who gets his way by being the strongest and meanest? Is
there no European equivalent of protocol? Guilt? Shame?
What can one say to people whose principle language uses a
single word for the meaning of "right" and "proper" as well as the
concept of "theft" and "taking things by force," as English does
with the word 'appropriate?'
159

T

Gerry William

Gerry William

The analogies continue.
At 2 a.m. on a night just before I began writing this, I sat
awake in bed, my wife asleep beside me. My mind went back to
the time I began writing my first published novel. To write it, I
became a hermit, a recluse, spending days teaching and nights
alone with my computer, writing the novel that demanded to be
written. Two years of solitude. Two years focusing my energies
inwards for expression.
Reading and writing demand such solitude. Remember the
famous adage about writing - that you don't have to live in an
ivory tower to be a writer, but you had better write in one.
Academics have it wrong. Storytelling and creative writing
are fundamentally different. Storytellers take the germinal of an
idea and shape the story to suit their audience. Different audience
- different emphasis, different words, different techniques, different words. It's an organic process, an inclusive one shaped by
the need to communicate one-to-one with groups of people.
The writer's published story creates one story for all of his or
her readers, regardless of who they might be. They may interpret
the story differently, but that's a reflection of the reader, not the
writer. The words remain the same. The story is essentially static, not dynamic.
Storytellers tend to use stock characters. It's the story, the
message, which is important, not the messenger. North American
writers tend to emphasize characters rather than plots. South
American writers haven't fallen for that trap.
Back to my main theme. I owe my students more than to present European literature. The carefully-crafted literary essay has
a deadness about it, a deadness that's shaped and reshaped in the
writer's own isolation and solitude. And don't think I don't see
the irony of crafting my essay, either.
There's a wonderful energy in changing the message to suit
the audience. I've talked about storytelling to forty or fifty different groups, and each time my message is worded differently,
because each time audience has changed, my students are different.
I talk about the use of repetition as a storytelling technique. In
essays, repetition isn't stressed, because the reader can always
return to a page or passage. Not so in storytelling. Imagine stop-

ping a play in mid-act because you missed what the characters
were saying or doing.
The use of repetition is the steady beat of a drummer. A
rhythm is established, a context involved. Each time the drummer
comes back to a certain beat, the drummer comes at it from a different direction and time, with the accumulated force of repetition. The music gains power. The message becomes more important. And it's out there, absorbed by its listeners. The drumbeat
goes on in their minds after they've left the circle. It beats in their
minds for the rest of their lives, maybe never to resurface,
although when it does, it does so with the force of epiphany.
I talk about Coyote, Sn'klip, always changing, always
demanding, always unpredictable. It's a character trait, and it's a
technique most teachers discourage in creative ,vriting. Stock
characters. But Sn'klip continues to challenge boundaries, testing
the limits of protocol and good judgement. His experiences are
lessons in life, and there's always a comic twist, always the need
to face life uninhibited. He talks, but so does the rest of creation.
Not children's stories so much as world views encompassing
children and adults, youths, elders, grandchildren and grandparents. The storyteller tells stories again and again, ensuring that at
some point the listeners fully understand what's being said. You
can't repeat the story until you "own" it, until you understand
what's being said. Beneath the still surface of words, there's an
ocean of life.
I've taken a breather, and I'm back into the essay. I've looked
at what I've written, and I realize that it's loose and rambling. It
wanders, and my first instinct, in true European literary fashion,
is to take my marker and begin editing. Go for the jugular. Get to
the point. Tighten the essay. Voices from my past training. Then
I remember the way my grandmother used to tell stories. She
spoke Okanagan, and it used to drive us kids nuts, because she
always circled around and around. We were forced to pay attention to every word, because she never explained what she was
saying. She just spoke, and the words would circle in my mind
for days. I worried at each line, each phrase, gnawing at it, trying
to understand why she said them in the way she said them.
I've just spoken with my wife. She likes my drum analogy.
Her name is Beth, and she's one of the voices of her people, the

160

161

Gerry William

Gerry William

Crees. It's important in the family and tribal sense to acknowledge those for whom you care. And I care so much for her. _She's
crystallized my thinking, and I'm ready to move on. Without
family and tribe, you're nothing.
A final analogy in this essay. It circles in my mind.
Two years ago I walked into a classroom, where the English
instructor was non-native. The students were a mixture of natives
and non-natives. They'd been discussing the evaluation of native
literature. For the non-native students, it was a matter of catching
up. The allusions and reference points made by such writers as
James Welch, N. Scott Momaday, and Leslie Silko were matters
which they had to come to terms with. On the other hand, the
native students understood these allusions and reference points.
Their questions were shaped differently.
I began my presentation, and realized that the students weren't
listening. So I changed my approach. Asked them questions. And
their questions were questions which dominate native literature
today.
The native students were angry. How could non-natives properly assess native literature if they didn't understand the allusions, reference points, and contexts upon which native stories
depended? How could non-natives take ideas and materials out of
context, and use them in their own writings? Where was the
respect, the following of protocol? Did appropriating materials
for literary purposes come naturally for non-native writers? I've
softened the tone of their questions, but the reader can understand
their anger only if they understand the processes and contexts
involved in the treatment of native by non-natives.
In the Okanagan way, I attacked the question through indirection. Should natives write about non-natives? At what point does
creative expression become appropriation? At what point does
storytelling take on the aspects of cultural theft?
.
No firm answers came from this process, at least not m class.
But that wasn't the point, no more than my grandmother wanted
us to leave with all the answers. Each student of literature should
come up with their own answers to these questions. The problem
is that so few non-native students and teachers feel the need to
question the European processes I've attempted to write about in
this essay. Can native literature and education be delivered by, or
162

controlled by, non-natives? Would black American or Maori
institutions allow themselves to be controlled by non-Natives?
No, because at some point black educators and writers stood up
and insisted upon complete control of their own education and
writing. By and for their own people. They felt strongly that they
had the tools and people to control their own destinies, rather than
be controlled, however obliquely, by others.
Non-natives may ask, "What's the problem?" or "Shouldn't
the best qualified teachers be hired regardless of their nationality
or race?" or "Why can't we have the freedom to take ideas and
processes to use for our own purposes?"
Traditionally, if you didn't follow protocol, if you didn't ask
for permission, you were asked to leave the village. And certainly you were never allowed to control the village as a chief, as storyteller, or as elder, if you didn't come from that village.
So, is this the kind of essay I encourage my students to write?
Yes, and no. Leaming to come to the point has its advantages.
Leaming to develop characters is important. But there are other
issues involved. It's important that native students understand that
there is such a thing as native literature, and that it isn't the same
as non-native literature. Nor should it be measured with the same
tools and techniques as non-native literatures are measured by.
Cultural relativity? Damn right it is. Our voices are important,
and need to be heard over those non-native "experts," writers, and
teachers who have interests and control over who native peoples
are, and what they believe in.
Listen to the drums, and the stories that circle. Listen to the
voices of native writers, and understand that they come from different world views. Don't tum them into apples, into good little
brown white writers who depend upon the good graces of their
big brothers. Tum them into writers who seek to understand their
own cultures. If you're non-native, listen to what they have to say,
"even" if they're only students without the academic or professional credentials of their white counterparts.
Our voices are different. To try to make them the same is the
process of assimilation and control which the Canadian government has failed so miserably at.

163

Lois Red Elk

Lois Red Elk

Indian Names
I was visiting and travelling in California one year, and was
surprised to meet so many Indian people who told me their Indian
names were made up or borrowed from some other tribe. I felt
sorry, because they wished they had their family Indian names
and could receive personal Indian names in the traditional ceremonial way.
All Native nations, clans and families have traditional ways
for acquiring Indian names and in turn these names are passed on
through the generations. At one time our people were known only
by their Indian names, and some had two Indian names. One
name was received during childhood, and the second after they
matured and/or accomplished a great deed. One's Indian name
identified who you were.
Among the L/Dakota, Indian names came individually
through a very spiritual and ceremonial process. We were named
after a revered ancestor, after a vision, or according to a personal
dream.
A very private and sacred naming ceremony, in the Sioux
Nation, was to ask a "Winkte" (literally, a man who acts like a
woman) to give a secret name to our child. When this was done
the child would always be healthy and have a long life.
Those of us who have gone through a traditional naming ceremony never forget the experience whether we are the recipient,
the giver, or a member of the family. We are charged not to forget, because it is also our responsibility to help the recipient
uphold their name. Along with the name comes a ceremonial gift.
We lived by our Indian names, upheld and honored them.
Names were so important, we dared not dishonor them. Yes, we
made mistakes, we are human, we all go through a learning
process, but we lived and were guided so we would not go out
and intentionally dishonor our names.
164

In some of the "Tiospaye" (generally, like a clan), a L/Dakota
~erson;,s ~a~,e is so revered it is only shared in prayer times, like
m_the Impi (generally, a sweat lodge) or "Yuwipi" (generally,
tymg up) ceremonies. This is because they are identifying themselves to the spirits.
. 0~ th~ Sioux reservations, we all know what happened to our
identity m the 1800's when the U.S. government and church
groups took our names and gave us foreign names. Some names
were forced on us, with others there was little choice. We had the
names of presidents, missionaries, companies, traders and Bible
characters.

I think of all the suffering my ancestors went through when
they lost their names. They not only lost their names, they lost the
language of the name, they lost their birthright - to be able to
grow with it, and they could no longer daily identify with the
essence of the ceremony.
Some of my ancestors, whether it be because of chance
prayer, or being headstrong, were able to keep their India~
names. Some of those names stayed in the L/Dakota language,
such as "Wakan" - Holy, or "Mahto" - Bear. Some Sioux names
were translated into English, like my great grandfather's name,
"Hehaka Duta" - Elk (painted) Red.
But, traditionally, Red Elk could not be my name to use
because it was my great grandfather's vision name. When my
ancestors were put on reservations they were told, "You will use
the name Red Elk as the family name and pass it down as a surname." But, I know this history, I know my culture and ceremonies, and I am comfortable with what is called a maiden name.
also have ~wo ceremonial Indian names known only to my family, close friends and those with whom I pray.

!

I'd li~e to share a story about names which was told by one of
my relatives. It happened when our names were being taken away
from us and we had to decide which name we wanted.

165

Jack Forbes

Lois Red Elk

"Ho tunkasi, neja caje"
(Grandfather, what name)
"wazi du he kta"
(do you want, going to have?)
"tukte caje yacin he?"
(which name do you want?)
"Ho, takoja, caje wan"
(Grandchild, a name)
"eyotahan wastehca"
(above all, the very best)
"Ho, he wacin"
(that's what I want)
"Jesus, emakin yapi wacin"
(Jesus is the name I want.)
"Ho, ho, tunkasi, he caje kin"
(Grandfather, that name)
"nina eyotahan waste"
(it's too good.)
"Tuwena yuhi sni!"
(Nobody has that!)
"Hiya takoja!"
(No grandson!)
"he caje kin wacin."
(that's the name I want.)
The relative did not get the name, but he got his point across.
His own name was his prize possession, he lived by it and honored it. The only other name, he thought, that could compare with
his, was the name Jesus. Nobody said anymore about taking his
Indian name away.
I suggested to the Indian people I met in California, "Research
your traditional Indian names and take them back. Also, ask one
of your elders to give you an Indian name in the ceremonial way.
They're waiting for you."

166

Indios for 500 Years
BUT NO MORE
It was at Galway
in western Ireland
1477 was the likely year
a man and a woman
from America
were there seen
arriving by raft
or dugout boat

Colombo to be called Columbus
Christopherens self-named
saw these people there
with his own eye
magnificent ones
he wrote
in a book
which still survives.
People from Cathay, Catayo he recorded
sailing towards the east
ending up in Hibernia
at Galway
for Colombo believed
all his life
that Catayo
China we call it
lay due west
of Europe
just across the Atlantic
And Catayo
the miscalculator, Colombo
believed was part of India
for what was known then
as India extra Gangem
167

Jack Forbes

Jack Forbes

or India beyond the Ganges
ran eastward through
Southeast Asia to China
and to all of the spice islands of
the Indies.
Colombo, Colono
the miscalculator
believed at first that Cuba
a long peninsula was
an appendage of
the Great Khan's land
of Catayo
and he called our people
"indios"
and he called the lands
"las indias"
and "india extra gangem."
And on his last voyage
Colon the miscalculator
convinced himself
since Cuba was an island
that Nicaragua was the
very edge of Asia
that Catayo was
just beyond the
mountains of Amerrique.
And so the Spaniards
called our ancestors
indios
people of the India
people of Ind
people of Hind
people of the land of the Indus.

168

They named our ancestors
indios
people of the Indies
and so they also
named as Indios
the Chinese
the Filipinos
and all of the other peoples from old India
across the broad Pacific
to their New India.
Nova India
some of them called
our land on maps
New India
or West India
and our ancestors
became the New Indians
the West Indians.
But the truth is
and we know it
even if they don't(!)
our land is not part of India
it is not West India
it is not India Nova
and we are not really Indios
not really Indians.
American or otherwise.
Our names have been crushed
under booted feet
Our names have been buried
under looted cities
Our names have been corrupted
by foulmouthings.

169

E. K. Caldwell

Jack Forbes

Still, the Middle Continent of the world
this Turtle-spirited island
this Gourd island
of Maraca
the sacred island
of Maiza
this beautiful island
of Semanahuac
will one day
see
emerging from between our lips
its real names
and sacred truth!

Thoughts Right Before Sleep
All the talk
about understanding
the words
and what they
signify
not resigning themselves
to the customary cautionary semantics
feeling within
the beat of the heart
signifying the heartbeat of humanity
and life breath
and the mother of us all
people talkin' the talk more now
relinquish violence
the new battle cry
no more legacies of hatred
and petty skirmishes
passed on to generations
already steeped in the confusion
of those who talk and talk
but continue to evade responsibility
claiming no prior experience
is reason enough
to refuse rebirth
into wholeness and love.

*****
when we become caricatures
living out the soap opera
competing for the starring role
m As The Tipi Turns
someone always bitching
about this one or that one
doing it wrong

170

171

E. K. Caldwell

£. K. Caldwell

looking mean in the face at one another
cause this one's mad at that one- again
caught up in the grandiosity of our own paranoia
wearing history like a lead sinker on a weak line
and the work doesn't get done
and the young ones die
the death of those
who will foreit the lives of others
in an imagined war against the wrong enemy
the ricocheting consequences of ill conceived plans
based on misconception and ignorance of honor
leaving riddled spirits
creating a future full of holes.

*****
the struggles of those
already assimilated
now screaming and raging
about imperialism and exploitation
are perhaps the wails of those arriving late to a funeral.

*****
frustrated static humming on the moccasin telegraph
emotional snipers
tiny razored arrows flying
they wound more deeply
than is believed at first glance.

lopsided triage
the blind man diagnosing the deaf man
recommending major surgery
the deaf man stares in horrored clarity
his powerlessness to make the blind man see
more terrifying to him
than his own inability to hear.

*****
heard someone say the leaders should fix it
right now
using words like seven generations
most times not feeling in the heart
the understanding of their meaning
they are words repeated in the mind as thoughts
that hurry and distract
forgetting to pray
or maybe never knowing how
thinking is different than praying.
there are those who offer themselves
and their gifts may not include haste
they stand between the past
that has defined them
and the future
the people demand
so often denied the moment of today
whose prayer is needed
to breathe life into the gifts they bring.

cheap shots bring their own hangovers
leaving us stranded
in the muddied bottoms
of creeks running dry

*****

172

173

INTERNATIONAL
INDIGENOUS VOICES

Haunani-Kay Trask

Gods of Our Ancestors
I sing of time before,
ka wa mamua
true, love-struck
engraved in light
in song-woven palms
along voluminous falls.
I sing of the far green sea
ka moauli
undulating
the great gods ascending.
I sing of mana
the many-flanked Ko'olau
in darkest blue;
the fierce foliage
of Kane abundant:

'ohe, ulu, kao
'ama'u
I sing of Pele
she who fires islands:
hapu 'u, lehua, 'olapa
plumed shores
quivering in birth.
I sing of Akua
Papa-hanua-moku
dense lava mother
swept by storm.
I sing of Hawai'i
'aina aloha
my high dark land
in flames.

177

Haunani-Kay Trask

Haunani-Kay Trask

II.

Nostalgia: VJ-Day

At the gravesites, tens
of thousands of tourists;
National Cemetery
of the Pacific: honoring

I.
A wounded morning
crippled by helicopters.
No bulletproof skies
over our "Hawaiian Islands"

war dead by waving
American flags
in a far-away land.
Red, white, and blue,

where Presidents and
enemies dismember
this charmed Pacific.
Now, the exalted 50th
anniversary of VJ-Day.
Parade of the ancients: Marines,
G.I.s, the all-Filipino
regiment reminiscing
in faded uniform,
feted by a Commanderin-Chief ascending on bursts
of rhetoric, but deftly

Old Glory, old glory.
At Waikiki and Pearl
Harbor, maneuvers
and air shows: jets,
carriers, even a black
"stealth bomber," modelled
by Star Trek. Ah!
the long ago days
of real war, remembered
with tears, when killing
was simple, and tall,
young warriors went down

avoiding Vietnam, the wrong
war, inglorious
embarrassment.
And there, our authentic

in blood and guts:
for democracy, for country
for the great
U.S. of A.

Japanese Senator, smugly
armless from the great war,
preposterous manikin
of empire, feigning an
accent (American East
coast or late British
· colonial) proving
acculturation by
perfect imitation.
178

179

7

Haunani-Kay Trask

Haunani-Kay Trask

welling grief,
centuries of memory
from my native 'aina:

The Broken Gourd
I.

Each of us slain
by the white claw
of history: lost
genealogies, propertied
missionaries, diseased
haole.

After the last echo
where fingers of light
soft as laua 'e
come slowly
toward our aching earth,
a cracked ipu
whispers, bloody water
on its broken lip.

Now, a poisoned pae 'aina
swarming with foreigners
and dying Hawaiians.

II.

IV.

Long ago, wise kanaka
hauled hand-twined
nets, whole villages shouting
the black flash of fish.

A common horizon:
smelly shores
under spidery moons.

Wahine u'i
trained to the chant
of roiling surf;
na keiki sprouted by the sun
of a blazing sky.

pockmarked maile vines,
rotting ulu groves,
the brittle clack
of broken lava stones.
Out of the east
a damp stench of money
burning at the edges.

Even Hina, tinted
by love, shone gold
across lover's sea.

Out of the west
the din of divine
violence, triumphal
destruction.

III.

This night I crawl
into the mossy trunk
of upland winds;
an island's moan

At home the bladed
reverberations of empire.

180

181

Moana Sinclair

Haunani-Kay Trask

Ruins

Letter Excerpt

To choose the late noon
sun, running barefoot
on wet Waimanalo
beach; to go with all

.. .I am sending you this poem ... I wrote it at the time of CHOGM:
Commonwealth Heads of Government
which was held in November 1995.
Our political group protested outside Aotea square. We were
filmed during this protest and are no doubt
on file forever.

our souls' lost yearnings
to that deeper place
where love has let
the stars come down

That year we held an alternative indigenous peoples conference
at Waipapa Marae. Many nations came
and spoke. We were closely monitored by the undercover cops.

and my hair, shawled
over bare shoulders,
fall in black waves
across my face;

Anyway, this poem was what came out of it. We were face to face
with our own Maori people who were
placed in front row positions against us.

there, at last,
escaped from the ruins
of our nation,

I would have been "grabbed" as I was asking our own men why
they were standing against us in our stand
for our lands when their Chief Police Officer ordered them to get
me and shut me up. If I hadn't
mentioned the fact that I knew the law I most definitely would
have been silenced ....

to lift our voices
over the sea
in bitter howls
of mourning.

Arohanui

182

183

Patricia Grace

Moana Sinclair

The Brothers

N gati Kangaru

Why do you face me with linked arms and ready batons, my
brothers!

Billy was laughing his head off reading the history of the New
Zealand Company, har, har, har, har.

you all in blue on that side and us, your brothers and sisters on
this side.

It was since he'd been made redundant from Mitre 10 that
he'd been doing all this reading. Billy and Makere had four children, one who had recently qualified as a lawyer but was out of
work, one in her final year at university, and two at secondary
school. These kids ate like elephants. Makere's job as a checkout
operator for New World didn't bring in much money and she
though Billy should be out looking for another job instead of sitting on his backside all day reading and laughing.

We've come to tell them no more of their damn trade plans in our
lands!
Your master twitches giving you his orders
sending signals to cameras to capture our faces?
You take orders so easily, my brothers?
"Get her! the one with the mouth! ... Get her!"
Hey! they taught me about free speech at your law school!
... yes ... I thought
that would calm you ... you upholders of the law...
you see, we've come to tell them no more of their damn trade
plans in our
lands!
We've come to take our rightful place in our ancestral lands ... my
brothers.

The book belonged to Rena, whose full given names were
Erena Meretiana. She wanted the book back so she could work on
her assignment. Billy had a grip on it.
Har, har, these Wakefields were real crooks. That's what
delighted Billy. He admired them, and at the beginning of his
reading had been distracted for some minutes while he reflected
on that first one, E.G. Wakefield, sitting in the clink studying up
on colonisation. Then by the time of his release, EG had the edge
on all those lords, barons, MPs, lawyers and so forth. Knew more
about colonisation than they did, haaar.
However, Billy wasn't too impressed with the reason for EG's
incarceration. Abducting an heiress? Jeepers! Billy preferred
more normal, more cunning crookery, something funnier - like
lying, cheating and stealing.
So in that regard he wasn't disappointed as he read on,
blobbed out in front of the two-bar heater that was expensive to
run, Makere reminded him. Yes, initial disappointment left him
the more he progressed in his reading. Out-and-out crooks, liars,
cheats and thieves these Wakefields. He felt inspired.
What he tried to explain to Makere was that he wasn't just
spending his time idly while he sat there reading. He was learning a few things from EG, WW, Jemingham, Arthur and Co., that

184

185

Patricia Grace

Patricia Grace

would eventually be of benefit to him as well as to the whole family. He knew it in his bones.

Aotearoa. This group was in the initial stages of planning for a
mass return of Maori to their homeland.

'Listen to this,' he'd say, as Makere walked in the door on feet
that during the course of the day had grown and puffed out over
the tops of her shoes. And he'd attempt to interest her with
excerpts from what he'd read "'The Wakefields' plan was based
on the assumption that vast areas - if possible, every acre - of
New Zealand would be bought for a trifle, the real payment to the
people of the land being their 'civilising' ..." Hee hee, that's
crafty. They called it "high and holy work."

In the interview that followed, Hiko explained that there was
disillusionment among Maori people with life in Australia and
that they now wanted to return to New Zealand. Even the young
people who had been born in Australia, who may never have seen
Aotearoa, were showing an interest in their ancestral home. The
group included three or four millionaires, along with others who
had made it big in Oz, as well as those on the bones of their arses
- or that's how Billy translated into English what Hiko had said
in Maori, to Hana and Gavin. These two were Hana Angeline and
Gavin Rutene, the secondary schoolers, who had left their homework to come and gog at their uncle on television.

'And here. There was this "exceptional Law" written about in
one of EG's anonymous publicatons, where chiefs sold a heap of
land for a few bob and received a section "in the midst of emigrants" in return. But har, har, the chiefs weren't allowed to live
on this land until they had "learned to estimate its value."
Goodby-ee, don't cry-ee. It was held in reserve waiting for the
old fellas to be brainy enough to know what to do with it.
'Then there was this "adopt-a-chief scheme," a bit like the
"dial-a-kaumatua" scheme that they have today where you bend
some old bloke's ear for an hour or two, let him say a few wise
words and get him to do the old rubber-stamp trick, hee, hee. Put
him up in a flash hotel and give him a ride in an aeroplane then
you've consulted with every iwi throughoutAotearoa, havintcha?
Well, "adopt-a-chief' was a bit the same except the prizes were
different. They gave out coats of arms, lessons in manners and
how to mind your p's and q's, that sort of stuff. I like it. You could
do anything as long as you had a "worthy cause," and Billy would
become pensive. 'A worthy cause. Orl yew need is a werthy
caws.'
On the same day that Billy finished reading the book he found
his worthy cause. He had switched on the television to watch Te
Karere, when the face of his first cousin Hiko, who lived in Poi
Hakena, Australia, came on to the screen.
The first shots showed Hiko speaking to a large rally of Maori
people in Sydney who had formed a group called Te Hokinga ki
186

Hiko went on to describe what planning would be involved in
the first stage of The Return, because this transfer of one hundred
families was a first stage only. The ultimate plan was to return all
Maori people living in Australia to Aotearoa, iwi by iwi. But the
groups didn't want to come home to nothing, was what Hiko was
careful to explain. They intended all groups to be well housed and
financed on their return, and discussions and decisions on how to
make it all happen were in progress. Billy's ears prickled when
Hiko began to speak of the need for land, homes, employment
and business ventures. "'Possess yourselves of the soil,"' he muttered,"' and you are secure."'
Ten minutes later he was on the phone to Hiko.
By the time the others returned - Makere from work Tu from
job-hunting and Rena from varsity - Billy and the two' children
had formed a company, composed a rap, cleared a performance
space in front of the dead fireplace, put their caps on backwards
and practised up to performance standard:
First you go and form a Co.
Make up lies and advertise
Buy for a trifle the land you want
For Jew's harps, nightcaps
Mirrors and beads
187

Patricia Grace

Patricia Grace

Sign here sign there
So we can steal
And bring home cuzzies
To their 'Parent Isle'

'Is that all?' said Makere.

Draw up allotments on a map
No need to buy just occupy
Rename the places you now own
And don't let titles get you down
For blankets, fish hooks, axes and guns
Umbrellas, sealing wax, pots and clothes
Sign here sign there
So we can steal
And bring home cuzzies
To their 'Parent Isle'
Bought for a trifle sold for a bomb
Homes for your rellies
And dollars in the bank
Bought for a trifle sold for a bomb
Homes for your rellies and
Dollars in the bank
Ksss Aue, Aue,
Hi.
Billy, Hana and Gavin bowed to Makere, Tu and Rena. 'You
are looking at a new company,' Billy said, 'which from henceforward (his vocabulary had taken on some curiosities since he had
begun reading histories) will be known as Te Kamupene o Te
Hokinga Mai.'
'Tell Te Kamupene o Te Hokinga Mai to cough up for the
mortgage,' said Makere, disappearing offstage with her shoes in
her hand.
'So we all need,' said Billy to Makere, later in the evening, is
a vast area of land "as far as the eye can see".'
188

'Of "delightful climate" and "rich soil" that is "well watered
and coastal". Of course it'll need houses on it too, the best sort of
houses, luxury style.'
'Like at Claire Vista,' said Makere. Billy jumped out of his
chair and his eyes jumped out, 'Brilliant, Ma, brilliant.' He planted a kiss on her unimpressed cheek and went scravvling in a
drawer for pen and paper so that he could write to Hiko:
' ... the obvious place for the first settlement of Ngati Kangaru,
it being "commodious and attractive". But more importantly, as
you know, Claire Vista is the old stomping ground of our iwi that
was confiscated at the end of last century, and is now a luxury
holiday resort. Couldn't be apter. We must time the arrival of our
people for late autumn when the holidaymakers have all left. I'll
take a trip up there on Saturday and get a few snaps, which I'll
send. Then I'll draw up a plan and we can do our purchases.
Between us we should be able to see everyone home and housed
by June next year. Timing your arrival will be vital. I suggest you
book flights well in advance so that you all arrive at once. We will
charter buses to take you to your destination and when you arrive
we will hold the official welcome-home ceremony and see you all
settled into your new homes.'
The next weekend he packed the company photographer with
her camera and the company secretary with his notebook and
biro, into the car. He, the company manager, got in behind the
wheel and they set out for Claire Vista.
At the top of the last rise, before going down into Claire Vista,
Billy stopped the car. While he was filling the radiator, he told
Hana to take a few shots. And to Gavin he said, 'Have a good
look, son, and write down what the eye can see.'
'On either side of where we're stopped,' wrote Gavin, 'there's
hills and natral vejetation. Ther's this long road down on to this
flat land that's all covered in houses and parks. There's this long,
189

Patricia Grace

Patricia Grace

straight beach on the left side and the other side has lots of small
beaches. There's this airport for lite planes and a red windsock
showing hardly any wind. One little plane is just taking oof.
There's these boats coming and going on the water as far as the I
can see, and there's these two islands, one like a sitting dog and
one like a duck.'
Their next stop was at the Claire Vista Information Centre,
where they picked up street maps and brochures, after which they
did a systematic tour of the streets, stopping every now and again
to take photographs and notes.

'So what do I do?' asked Tu, who had just been made legal
adviser of the company. He was Tuakana Petera and this was his
first employment.

'Once the deeds of sale have been made up for each property
I'll get the signatures on them and then they'll be ready. I'll also
prepare a map of the places, each place to be numbered, and
when all the first payments have been made you can hold a lottery where subscribers' tickets are put into "tin boxes". Then you
can have ceremonies where the names and numbers will be
drawn out by a "beautiful boy". This is a method that has been
used very successfully in the past, according to my information.
'Tomorrow we're going out to buy Jew's harps, muskets, blankets (or such like) as exchange for those who sign the parchments.'

'You'll have a hundred families all living in one house, I suppose,' said Makere, 'because that's all you'll get with four thousand dollars a family.'

'Get parchments ready for signing,' said Billy.
'Possess yourselves of the homes,' said Billy.
'Do you mean deeds of title?'
'What's that supposed to mean?'
'That's it,' said Billy. Then to Rena, the company's new
researcher, he said, 'Delve into the histories and see what you can
come up with for new brochures. Start by interviewing Nanny.'

'It's a "wasteland". They're waste homes. They're all unoccupied. Why have houses unoccupied when there are people wanting to occupy them?'

'I've got exams in two weeks I'll have you know.'
'Bullshit. Hana and Gav didn't say the houses were unoccupied.'

'After that will do.'
The next day Billy wrote to Hiko to say that deeds of title
were being prepared and requested that each of the families send
two thousand dollars for working capital. He told him that a further two thousand dollars would be required on settlement. 'For
four thousand bucks you'll all get a posh house with boat, by the
sea, where there are recreation parks, and amenities, anchorage
and launching ramps, and a town, with good shopping, only
twenty minutes away. Also it's a good place to set up businesses
for those who don't want to fish all the time.

'That's because it's summertime. End of March everyone's
gone and there are good homes going to waste. "Reclaiming and
cultivating a moral wilderness", that's what we're doing, "serving
to the highest degree", that's what we're on about, "according to
a deliberate and methodical plan".'
'Doesn't mean you can just walk in and take over.'
'Not unless we get all the locks changed.'
By the end of summer the money was coming in and Billy had
all the deeds of sale printed, ready for signing. Makers thought he

190

191

Patricia Grace

Patricia Grace

was loopy thinking that all these rich wallahs would sign their
holiday homes away.
'Not them,' Billy said. You don't get them to sign. You get
other people. That's how it was done before. Give out pressiestobacco, biscuits, pipes, that sort of thing, so that they, whoever
they are, will mark the parchments.'
Makere was starting to get the hang of it, but she huffed all the
same.
'Now I'm going out to get us a van,' Billy said. 'Then we'll
buy the trifles. After that, tomorrow and the next day, we'll go
and round up some derros to do the signing.'
It took a week to get the signatures, and during that time Billy
and the kids handed out - to park benchers in ten different parts
of the city - one hundred bottles of whisky, one hundred packets of hot pies and one hundred old overcoats.

'What do you want our signatures for?' they asked.
'Deeds of sale for a hundred properties up in Claire Vista,'
Billy said.
'The only Claire Vistas we've got is where our bums hit the
benches.'
'Well, look here.' Billy showed them the maps with the allotments marked out on them and they were interested and pleased.
'Waste homes,' Billy explained. 'All these fellas have got plenty
of other houses all over the place, but they're simple people who
know nothing about how to fully utilise their properties and they
can scarcely cultivate the earth". But who knows they might have
a "peculiar aptitude for being improved". It's "high and holy
work", this.'

In fact everything went so well that there was nothing much
left to do after that. When he wrote to Hiko, Billy recommended
that settlement of Claire Vista be speeded up. 'We could start
working on places for the next hundred families now and have all
preparations done in two months. I think we should make an
overall target of one hundred families catered for every two
months over the next ten months. That means in March we get
our first hundred families home, then another lot in May, July,
September, November. By November we'll have five hundred
Ngati Kangaru families, i.e., about four thousand people, settled
before the holiday season. We'll bring in a few extra families
from here (including ourselves) and that means that every property in Claire Vista will have new owners. If the Te Karere news
crew comes over there again,' he wrote, 'make sure to tell them
not to give our news to any other language. Hey, Bro, let's just tap
the sides of our noses with a little tip of finger. Keep it all nod
nod, wink wink, for a while.'

On the fifth of November there was a big welcome-home ceremony, with speeches and food and fireworks at the Claire Vista
hall, which had been renamed Te Whare Ngahau o Ngati
Kangaru. At the same time Claire Vista was given back its former
name of Ikanui and discussions took place regarding the renaming of streets, parks, boulevards, avenues, courts, dells and glens
after its reclaimers.
By the time the former occupants began arriving in midDecember all the signs in the old Claire Vista had been changed
and the new families were established in their new homes. It was
a lovely, soft and green life at that time of year. One in which you
could stand barefooted on grass or sand in your shorts and shirt
and roll your eyes round. You could slide your boat down the
ramp, cruise about, toss the anchor over and put your feet up, fish,
pull your hat down. Whatever.

'Too right. Go for it,' the geezers said. Billy and the kids did
their rap for them and moved on, pleased with progress.

On the day that the first of the holidaymakers arrived at 6 Ara
Hakena, with their bags of holiday outfits, Christmas presents,
CDs, six-packs, cartons of groceries, snorkels, lilos and things,
the man and woman and two sub-teenagers were met by Mere

192

193

_

_.,.,. .. ·•'

Patricia Grace

Patricia Grace

and Jim Hakena, their three children, Jim's parents and a quickly
gathering crowd of neighbours.

The visitors were quick to decline the offer. They went away
and came back two hours later with a policeman, who felt the
heat but did the best he could, peering at the papers that Mai and
Poto had produced, saying little. 'Perhaps you should come along
with me and lay a formal complaint,' he suggested to the holidayers. Mai, Poto and a few of the neighbours went fishing after
they'd gone.

At first, Ruby and Gregory in their cotton co-ordinates, and
Alister with his school friend in their stonewashed jeans, apricot
and applegreen tees, and noses zinked pink and orange, thought
they could've come to the wrong house, especially since its
address seemed to have changed and the neighbours were different.

From then on the holidaymakers kept arriving and everyone
had to be alert, moving themselves from one front lawn to the
next, sometimes having to break into groups so that their eyeballing skills, their skills in creative comment, could be shared
around.It was Christmas by the time the news of what was happening reached the media. The obscure local paper did a tame,
muddled article on it, which was eclipsed firstly by a full page on
what the mayor and councillors of the nearby town wanted for
Christmas, and by another, derived from one of the national
papers, revealing New Year resolutions of fifty television personalities. After that there was the usual nation-wide closedown of
everything for over a month, at the end of which time no one
wanted to report holiday items any more.

But how could it be the wrong house? It was the same windowy place in stained weatherboard, designed to suit its tree environment and its rocky outlook. There was the new skylit extension and glazed brick barbecue. Peach tree with a few green ones.
In the drive in front of the underhouse garage they could see the
spanking blue boat with Sea Urchin in cursive along its prow. The
only difference was that the boat was hitched to a green
Landcruiser instead of to a red Range Rover.
'That's our boat,' said Ruby.
'I doubt it,' said Mere and Ken together, folding their arms in
umson.

So it wasn't until the new residents began to be sued that there
was any news. Even then the story only trickled.

'He paid good money for that,' a similarly folded-armed
neighbour said. 'It wasn't much but it was good.'

It gathered some impetus, however, when the business-people
from the nearby town heard what was happening and felt concerned. Here was this new population at Claire Vista, or whatchyoum' callit now, who were permanent residents and who were
big spenders, and here were these fly-by-night jerk holidaymakers trying to kick them out.

Ruby and Alister didn't spend too much more time arguing.
They went back to Auckland to put the matter in the pink hands
of their lawyer.
It was two days later that the next holidaymakers arrived, this
time at 13 Tiritoroa. After a long discussion out on the front lawn,
Mai and Poto with their Dobermen and a contingent of neighbours felt a little sorry for their visitors in their singlets, baggies
and jandals, and invited them in.
'You can still have your holiday, why not?' said Mai. 'There's
the little flat at the back and we could let you have the dinghy. It's
no trouble.'
194

I
I

I
I

I

l

Well, ever since this new lot had arrived business had boomed.
the town was flourishing. The old supermarket, now that there
was beginning to be competition, had taken up larger premises,
lowered its prices, extended its lines and was providing trollies,
music and coffee for customers. The car sale yards had been
smartened up and the office decor had become so tasteful that the
salespeople had had to clean themselves up and mind their lan195

Patricia Grace

Patricia Grace

guage. McDonald's had bought what was now thought of as a
prime business site, where they were planning to build the biggest
McDonald's in the Southern Hemisphere. A couple of empty
storerooms, as well as every place that could be uncovered to
show old brick, had been converted into better-than-average eating places. The town's dowdy motel, not wanting to be outdone
by the several new places of accommodation being built along the
main road, had become pink and upmarket, and had a new board
out front offering television, video, heating swimming pool, spa,
waterbeds, room service, restaurant, conference and seminar
facilities.
Home appliance retailers were extending their showrooms
and increasing their advertising. Home building and real estate
was on an upward surge as more businesspeople began to enter
town and as those already there began to want bigger, better,
more suitable residences. In place of dusty, paintless shops and
shoppes, there now appeared a variety of boutiques, studios, consortiums, centres, lands and worlds. When the Clip Joint opened
up across the road from Lulu's hairdressers, Lulu had her place
done out in green and white and it became Upper Kut. After that
hair salons grew all over town, having names such as Head
Office, Headlands, Beyond the Fringe, Hairport, Hairwaves,
Hedlines, Siz's, Curl Up and Dye.
So the town was growing in size, wealth and reputation.
Booming. Many of the new businesspeople were from the
new Ikanui, the place of abundant fish. These newcomers had
brought their upmarket Aussie ideas to eating establishments,
accommodation, shops, cinema, pre-loved cars, newspaper publishing, transport, imports, exports, distribution. Good on them.
The business people drew up a petition supporting the new residents and their fine activities, and this petition was eventually
signed by everyone within a twenty-kilometre radius. This had
media impact.
But that wasn't all that was going on.
Billy had found other areas suitable for purchase and settlement, and Rena had done her research into the history of these
196

areas so that they knew whcih of the Ngati Kangaru had ancestral
ties to those places. There were six areas in the North Island and
six in the South. 'Think of what it does to the voting power,' said
Hiko, who was on the rise in local politics. Easy street, since all
he needed was numbers.
Makere, who had lost her reluctance and become wholehearted, had taken Hiko 's place in the company as liaison manager.
This meant that she became the runner between Ozland and
Aotearoa, conducting rallies, recruiting families, coordinating
departures and arrivals. She enjoyed the work.

One day when Makere was filling in time in downtown
Auckland before going to the airport, she noticed how much of
the central city had closed up, gone to sleep.
'What it needs is people,' she said to the rest of the family
when she arrived home.
They were lounging, steaming themselves, showering, hairdressing, plucking eyebrows, in their enormous bathroom. She let
herself down into the jacuzzi.
'Five hundred families to liven up the central city again.
Signatures on papers, and then we turn those unwanted, wasteland wilderness of warehouses and office spaces into town houses, penthouses and apartments.' She lay back and closed her eyes.
She could see the crowds once again seething in Queen Street
renamed Ara Makere, buying, selling, eating, drinking, talking,
laughing, yelling, singing, going to shows. But not only in Queen
Street. Not only in Auckland. Oh, it truly was high and holy
work. This Kamupene o te Hokinga Mai was 'a great and
unwonted blessing'. Mind-blowing. She sat up.
'And businesses. So we'll have to line up all our architects,
designers, builders, plumbers, electricians, consultants, programmers,' she said.
'"Soap boilers, tinkers and a maker of dolls' eyes"', said Billy.
197

Patricia Grace

Patricia Grace

income earners, street kids, derros.'
'The ones already heare as well the ones still in Oz,' Makere
said. 'Set them to work and use some of this damn money getting
those places done up. Open up a whole lot of shops, restaurants,
agencies ... ' She lay back again with her feet elevated. They swam
in the spinning water like macabre fish.
'It's brilliant, Ma,' Billy said, stripping off and walking across
the floor with his toes turned up and his insteps arched - in fact,
allowing only part of each heel and the ball joints of his big toes
to touch the cold tile floor. With the stress of getting across the
room on no more than heel and bone, his jaw, shoulders, elbows
and knees became locked and he had a clench in each hand as
well as in the bulge of his stomach.
'Those plumbers that you're talking about can come and run
a few hot pipes under the floor here. Whoever built this place
should've thought of that. But of course they were all summer
people, so how would they know?' He lowered himself into the
water, unlocking and letting out a slow, growling breath.
'We'll need different bits of paper for downtown business
properties,' said Tu from the steam bench.

'Different papers again for suburban homes,' said Tu.
'Candidates and more candidates, votes and more votes,' said
Hiko, who had come from next door wearing a towel and carrying a briefcase. 'And why stop at Oz? We've got Maori communities in Utah, in London, all over the place.'
'When do we go out snooping, Dad?' asked Hana and Gavin,
who had been blow-waving each other's hair.
'Fact finding, fact finding,' said Billy. 'We might need three or
four teams, I'll round up a few for training.'
'I need a video camera,' said Hana.
'Video for Hana,' said Billy.
'Motorbike,' said Gavin.
'Motorbike,' said Billy.
'Motorbike,' said Hana.

'Central Auckland was originally Ngati Whatua I suppose,'
said Rena, who lost concentration on what she was doing for a
meoment and plucked out a complete eyebrow. 'I'll check it
through then arrange a hui with them.'
'Think of it, we can influx any time of the year,' said Billy.
'We can work on getting people into the city in our off-season.
January.... And it's not only Auckland, it's every city.'
'And as well as the business places there are so many houses
in the cities empty at that time of the year too,' said Makere, narrowing her eyes while Billy's eyes widened. 'So we can look at
those leaving to go on holiday as well as those leaving holiday
places after the season is over. We can keep influxing from Oz of
course, but there are plenty of locals without good housing. We
can round them all up - the solos, the UBs, pensioners, low198

'Two motorbikes,' said Billy.
'Bigger offices, more staff,' said Tu and Rena.
'See to it,' said Billy.
'Settlements within the cities,' said Makere, who was still with
solos, UB, check-out operators and such. 'Around churches.
Churches, sitting there idle - wastelands, wildernesses of churches.'
'And "really of no value",' said Billy. 'Until they become .. .'
'Meeting houses,' Makere said. 'Wharenui.'
199

•
Patricia Grace

Patricia Grace

'Great. Redo the fronts, change the decor and we have all
these new wharenui, one every block or so. Take over surrounding properties for kohanga, kura kaupapa, kaumatua housing,
health and rehab centres, radio stations, TV channels ... '
'Deeds of sale for church properties,' said Tu.
'More party candidates as well,' Hiko said. 'We'll need everything in place before the new coalition government comes in ... '
'And by then we'll have "friends in high places".'
'Have our person at the top, our little surprise .. .'
'Who will be advised that it is better to reach a final and satisfactory conclusion than .. .'
"' ... to reopen questions of strict right, or carry on such an
unprofitable controversy".'

'Find out what we've saved the taxpayer by providing land
and maintaining our own cemeteries, burying our own dead.
Make up claims.'
'And there are some going concerns that need new ownership
too, or rather where old ownership needs re-establishing .. .'
'Sport and recreation parks .. .'
'Lake and river retreats .. .'
'Mountain resorts ... '
Billy hoisted himself. 'Twenty or thirty teams and no time to
waste.' He splatted across the tiles. 'Because "if from delay you
allow others to do it before you - they will succeed and you will
fail",' and he let out a rattle and a shuffle of a laugh that sounded
like someone sweeping up smashings of glass with a noisy
broom.

'Then there's golf clubs,' said Makere. 'I'll find out how many
people per week, per acre use golf courses,' said Rena. 'We'll find
wasteland and wilderness there for sure.'
'And find out how the land was acquired and how it can be
reacquired,' said Billy.
'Remember all the land given for schools? A lot of those
schools have closed now.'
'Land given for the war effort and not returned.'
'Find out who gave what and how it will be returned.'
'Railways.'
'Find out how much is owed to us from sale of railways.'
'Cemeteries.'
200

201

Paora Ropata

Paora Ropata

The Brother on the Bridge
None of our ope knew his name or where he was from, but he
must've had one and he must've come from somewhere 'cause
he's Maori. Someone said his name was Bruce, but he didn't look
like a Bruce. Another suggested Rawiri, someone else said
" ...Nah, it's Wi." Well, whatever his name was and wherever he
was from, to me he will always be the Brother on the Bridge.
He's a hero this Brother and I wish I had got to meet him, to find
out what he was like. Sure , I got to see him ... but to find out what
he was like .... Nah, not even.
Let me describe to you this Cool Black cat and why he's a
hero. He's tall without being heavy. Six foot... Six One, lean as
and cut up to the max, his skin a dark chocolate. He has an obligatory MUM tattoo on his left bicep. Facially, the brother has that
pahau goatee look. His eyes a deep hazel, the nose aquiline,
flared in the nostrils, the lips dark purple and full. And the
dreads.A couple of fat ones, some straggly ones but still the
meke, tuturu dreads and the brother was wearing them high and
proud in a Tiki-Tiki.
So now you know the Brother as well as I do, and in my head,
I need to to make up his life story. Something tragic or romantic
perhaps that will lend credence to his actions that day.

loser. Well not exactly a loser, but definitely a hoha fullah and
maybe not entirely trustworthy. Like his imaginary cousin said
"So he smokes a bit of Dak, and he's not much of a boozer but if
the occassion arises, he's been known to sit around a Keg with
the cuzzies and polish it off, no sweat! There's a Girlfriend, a kid,
and another on the way and she's always nagging him about committment. "The Big C is not cannabis" she yells at him constantly.
On a tino wera day, and Tai Tokerau will tell you it's like that
every day, 400 more or less, decided to hikoi from the bottom
marae, across the Bridge and up to the Treaty grounds. But not a
hikoi like 95. The spitting, the whakapohane, the haka, would be
out. Kia tau te rangimarie. Rangimarie that was the buzz word.
Well, someone was bound to start up "Ka Mate" somewhere
along the line, but Te Kawariki leader Hone Harawira reminded
us... Kia tau te rangimarie... and we did, until we met those
Babylon Blue Boys with their helmet visors down and their
batons drawn, all in formation at the foot of the Bridge.
The previous day, around 7 pm, perhaps a van load of Maori
from Putiki or Manutuke or wherever stops at a Mobil in Kamo
on the outskirts of Whangarei. Uncle Boy has run out of filters
and Aunty Girlie needs to go for a mimi. "Who wants a munch?
Are you hungry Cuz?" asks the distant but close cousin." Sweet
as Cuz," says the Brother. "I'm just heading over to that park over
there to have a ... well, you know!"

I'd like to think of him holding up the van back in Manutuke
or Putiki or whatever Marae. I can hear Uncle Boy moaning
"Where's this bloody fullah ... bloody hell we're running late as it
is."
Aunty Girlie is groaning also. "How come he's coming with
us anyway, blimmin' nuisance. And he better not smoke any of
that Wacky-Backy either. And just maybe there's a distant but
close cousin who is also aboard the Waitangi bound waka from
Putiki or Manutuke or wherever who stands up for the Bro and
says "kia ora Aunty and Uncle, he's O.K, so he's a little bit of a
hoha, kei te pai tera, he's got a good heart. "But Uncle Boy is
adamant, "I smell any of that Mara-jah-wama ... psssst, he's outta
here."
It maybe unfair, but I sort of think of the Brother as a bit of a

On a stinking hot day, and Tai Tokerau will tell you it's like
that every day, 400 people and 30 cops reached an impasse at the
foot of the Waitangi Bridge. Some Senior Seargent was on his
loud hailer shouting about some Bull-Shit law from some Fucked

202

203

"Well just be careful Bro, don't let Uncle or Aunty catch you."
"Don't worry Cuz," says the Brother tapping the pockets of
his Black Leather jacket "I've got the Clear Eyes in this one and
the smellies in this one."
"Well just be careful... and don't be too long."

Paora Ropata

Paora Ropata

Up Act and why crossing a perfectly good bridge as a paid up citizen of Aotearoa was temporarily not possible.Call me naive, but
I truly believed we would reach the Treaty Grounds that day.

But even the cousin is starting to get pissed off with the
Brother. More's the chance he's gone up town for some 'papers,'
rather than a 'Herald.'

"Surely there's no law that stops me from crossing this bridge,
officer," I shouted.

For a Brother to leave his treasured leathers on a beach with
400 strangers, you know it had better be for a damn good reason.
Damn good.

"You bunch of Bullies," someone yelled. "Bully Bastards,
Bully Bastards."

How or why no one noticed him sooner is beyond me, but
someone shouted out "Hey, who's that over there?"

"Shit-head fascist Pigs."
"Over where?"
And to the Maori cops, the cruelest "Kupapa." And as the sun
beat down and tempers flared and push turned to shove, and a
rock smashed against some cop's helmet, and arms and legs
clashed with baton, there was a Brother, stoned as the Venus de
Milo standing with 3 or 400 spectators on the beach at Waitangi,
who came up with an out-of-it idea.
Earlier that morning, here was our van load of Maori from
Putiki or Manutuke or wherever, ready to leave Uncle Boys'
cousin's place in Moerewa for the final 40 minute drive to
Waitangi. Aunty Girlie has on her Classic 2-piecer, Hui Black
with a cream blouse. Her finest harakeke and huruhuru kete safely beside her on the front seat. Uncle Boy in his Grey strides and
Tweed jacket. The shoes, shiny black, kicking up dry Northland
dust as he paces back and forth, a roly stuck on his bottom lip.
"Where the hell is this bloody boy? I told him I wanted to be
away by 9. Bloody Hell!"
"I told you he was a blimmin' nuisance," Aunty Girlie moans.
"Leave him behind Dear, he's been nothing but a hoha since we
left home. Always disappearing every time we stop. He never
talks just grunts and you know... for someone who looks so paru,
he smells too nice."
And maybe the close but distant cousin speaks up for him
again and says "Kia ora Aunty and Uncle, kei te pai, he won't be
long, I think he's walked up to the shops to get a paper."
204

"The bridge ... the middle of the bridge."
Standing on the top hand rail at the centre of the Waitangi
Bridge was our Brother from Putiki or Manutuke or wherever. In
all the co motion of the Police and Protestors fracas on the bridge,
no one noticed the Brother slip into the water and swim to the
middle concrete pillar and by using the criss-cross number 8
wiring that encased it, managed to climb the 5 or 6 meters to the
the underside of the bridge. He then must've swung Monkey bar
style under the bridge before coming up and onto the side. And
now, there he stood. Hands on his hips in the classic 'hope' position. The Dready hair, proud and high in a Tiki-Tiki. The dark wet
skin shining in the hot Northland sun.
It's an image that will stick in my mind forever. As the crowd
on the beach turned their attention to the middle of the bridge, a
huge cheer sounded from across the other side of the Estuary.
"Way to go Bro."
"Give 'em heaps Cuz."
And those few Warriors that had defied Police orders not to
swim across to the other side started up a stirring rendition of Te
Rauparahas' most famous haka, Ka Mate.
It encouraged those spectators on this side of the bridge to join
205

Paora Ropata

Alf Taylor

in and before you knew it, the protestors that had been in a standoff with Police for 2 hours found new resolve in their own struggle and joined in as well. It was a 600-strong Haka Party and it
was dedicated to the Brother on the Bridge. And as Protester and
Spectator slapped chest and thigh in unison to stomping feet, the
Brother stood precariously on the hand rail, conducting the crowd
with a mix of Haka and bravado, all the time the crowd cheering
him on. Senior Sargeant Loud Hailer barked an order and 2 Bully
Boys were dispatched to deal with this malaprop who had succeeded in getting behind enemy lines. The dummies. Surely they
knew they didn't have a hope in hell of capturing him. As the 2
Bullies closed in on the Brother, he turned his head, gave them
the 1 fingered sign of defiance ... and with a 'Kiss my ass' grin,
jumped.
And as the long, black, powerful legs pushed him out safely
beyond his assailants, the Brother thought he saw Uncle Boy on
the beach. His tweed jacket folded neatly next to a Black Leather
one. His sleeves rolled up, he was deep in the throes of his own
Haka. And who was that next to him in the classic 2-piecer, Hui
Black with a cream blouse? Was that Aunty Girlie with her arms
outstretched, her voice carrying the call of welcome to her
nephew? And a satisfied grin spread across the face of the Brother
as he momentarily reached the zenith of his jump and hung, like
Michael Jordan, in mid-air. Then the drop to the bottom and, with
perfect timing, the folding of his body to effect the ultimate
"Gorilla Bomb."
The effect on the crowd was awesome. The effect on the
Protestors even more so, and as they charged the Police at the foot
of the Waitangi Bridge, a Brother from Putiki or Manutuke or
wherever, idly did the backstroke as the hot Northland sun
warmed his body.

Forty Thousand Years Ago
The
First People
Lived
Off their land
Healthy bodies
Healthy minds
Wild
Fruit 'n' vegies
Were
At their
Disposal
Damper
Made from
Nature's seeds
Skirts
Woven from
River reeds
The
First People
Lived Beyond
Their lives
Of allowances
Passing down
The Dreamtime
Encouraging
Little ones
Keep
Eating daily
All
Fruit 'n' vegies
And
You'll always
Be
In latter
Life
Doing the
Corroboree

206

207

Margaret Brusnahan

Alf Taylor

Dreamtime Stories

Lawful kidnapping

Church, prayers
Christian religion
But where
Are
The Dreamtime
Stories

White man you stole my heritage
You took from me my right to live
Amongst the people of my tribe.
Through you my culture was denied.
You locked me up in institutes
And labelled me as destitute
Who authorised your heartless deeds?
What made you think you knew my needs?

Priest, nuns
And pastors
Missions
And Sunday Schools
But where
Are
The Dreamtime
Stories

I didn't need your type of living;
I had better than what you were giving.
I never once found in your kind
The commune of love I left behind.
You cut short my time of learning
And left in me a desperate yearning
For lakes and hills, freedom to roam,
When you locked me in your decent home.

A little child
Talks
To God
In prayer
But where
Are the
Elders
And the Dreamtime
Stories

Your downfall was my education:
I learnt from you discrimination.
You educated me, you see,
In just how much you took from me.
Can you replace those years I've lost?
Attempt to evaluate the cost?
You've taken children and the land,
Still white man you can't understand.

I
I

Reared your way didn't make us white.
If anything it helped us fight
The very day you set us free
To regain our lost identity.

I

208

l

209

Margaret Brusnahan

Kenny Williams

Forgotten

Citizenship

It's sad when my children want to know
Of Aboriginal legends of long ago,
Of dreamtime stories and corroborees,
Things that should have been taught to me.
How do I tell them that I missed out
Simply by being shuffled about
From one white home to another?
And that's how nobody came to bother
To tell me that I had a family tree
Or even that I was part Aborigine.

When are we going to be free
To live as we see
The future for our lives
When are we going to be free
Like the birds in the sky
Without continuing lies and
Agonising cries.

I had to wait until I was grown
To find my people on my own.
It's impossible to learn in a very short time
The language and culture of these people of mine.
I feel I am selling my own kids short
But how can I teach them what I wasn't taught?
So have patience my kids, I'm anxious too
To know these things as much as you.
Maybe in time we'll still this yearning
But remember my kids, I too am still learning.

When are we going to be free
From the white man's burdens
We are strong
No need to be
Put down any longer
Freedom is ours
Let's give it a chance
No matter what they say
We don't want to lie down
On our backs any more.
Citizenship came for us
But we are still the same
Some with different names, silly names
No matter that.
Leaming to read and write
White man tries to show the light
Some of us were blinded Some of us declined it
Citizenship came for us
But we are still the same
Some with different names, silly names
No matter that.

210

211

Rosemary Plummer

Kenny Williams

Assimilation to regain
Mental slavery
Some did not see
The lies and deceits
They played the white man's game
Never again the same!
Beginnings of classification
Separated within
Rejecting kinship
Walking the white man's road
Citizenship came for us
But we are still the same
Some with different names, silly names
No matter that.
What we want?
Land rights!
What we got?
Fuck all!
Shouts of anger
Shouts of despair
Shouts for the future
Drowning out the past
of white man's dominance
Setting up tent
Near Government House
Raising the flag
Demanding recognition.

Tribal Woman
I was born a tribal woman
with my tribal heritage women's business
and passing of knowledge
but over years my life has changed.
Growing into a woman
Wishing, wanting, to live
with my tribal images.
White man came destroyed my
language, culture
and the beauty of my country.
As a woman I feel sad but that doesn't matter
I hold my head high.

lost

Citizenship came for us
But we are still the same
Some with different names, silly names
No matter that.

212

213

Rosemary Plummer

Michael Fitz Jagamarra

Warumungu Tribe

My Mother Told Me a Story

Long before our fathers and our fathers
Warumungu tribe was highly intelligent
Upholding their culture - protective.

Many years ago my mother told me a story
a story about when she was a child
and it goes like this:
It was a cool and sunny day
and all the coloured kids
were playing around in their way.
But coming in the distance my grandmother saw
white people
coming towards the station.

Warumungu tribe celebrated corroboree,
initiating ceremonies
In the old respected ways
Rules came from the Dreamtime
passed by the elders from generation to
generation kinship, marriages, skin group, commitments
Young ones obeying their elders
Keeping language strong, alive.
One big family of brothers and sisters
Holding their culture strictlyHunting grounds, sacred places, country They owned with strong image,
respect and pride.

My mother told me this story
a story about when she was a child
growing up on the station my mother told me this story.
Some of the mothers started to run
and hide with their kids
down towards the waterhole in the bush but they took every half-caste kid in sight.
But my grandmother hid my mother
in an empty hay-sack bag.
My grandmother waited for the whites to go
but it was sadness that day
for the mothers of that land
'cause their children were taken away
from their dreaming and their culture.
This story makes me sad - what my mother told me.

214

215

7
Michael Fitz Jagamarra

Margarita Gutierrez

Culture Express

Witness Testimony (excerpt)

My people walked this land for 40,000 years
surviving on their land where they was born
living peaceful in their land.

The 1st of January of '94, like a cry of despair, the struggle of the
liberation, the National Liberation Army of the Zapatista
emerged. The Zapatista National Liberation Army emerged ....

Then the white man came
invaded the land
pushed them far away from their sacred place
away from their hunting ground and waterholes
shot and chained up for defending their land their blood is spilt on this land.

.. .I know the reality of the Chiapas. That's where the petroleum
lies in the indigenous regions. That's where wood is. That's
where the fish in the rivers are. That's where electrical energy is
produced. And in the indigenous communities they only see that
the cables go by that transport electrical energy....
... So it is a constant theft in indigenous regions.

And their spirits still walk this land
and we are the Aboriginal people of this land.
Our people walked this land for 40,000 years
our language and our culture strong and alive.
We are still walking and living strong
in this land called Australia
which is ours - yours and mine - Aboriginal people of this land.
And that's why we got to have respect for the old people
passing on the knowledge passed on
by their forefathers and mothers
to us young people We got to keep our language strong
our culture strong
in this land we all belong.
We are the Aboriginal people of this land
our people walked this land for 40,000 years
our language and our culture is strong and alive.

... And then there's no possibility of arrangement with ourselves
who are now claiming our own autonomy which is an internal
sovereignty of our communities and regions. It is not possible and
this is in contradiction because we don't only want economic
autonomy or cultural autonomy because they only see us as folkloric.
Like the province that we live in, in our regions ... extreme poverty is a product of our culture that we have not assimilated from
the development of the non-indigenous culture. But we have analyzed that this is not the case. It's not a problem of assimilation,
it's a problem of a political nature because our regions, our
indigenous communities, are seeds of votes that give power to
those that lead the Mexican state.
So what we want is an economic autonomy, and cultural, territorial and of our educational system as well. We see this as part of
a whole and if we do not achieve these things, we cannot have
autonomy nor anything, because they're only just cheating us.
So we are living a very serious problem and we do not know right
now, we are organizing ourselves to have great trust in our own
people because, as I mentioned, we are in danger... of being disappeared, made disappeared. Because also the non-indigenous do
not accept us as being different and that we are originating from

216

217

Margarita Gutierrez

Margarita Gutierrez

those lands. And they contribute with their attitudes to try to integrate us or assimilate us through their indigenous policies or
politicus indicanistas.
They always want to study us and to take things when the things
that they bring don't fix our problems. They have not understood
that we have the capacity, the maturity, our own institutions, our
own internal life, already organized and decided from always,
from the oldest of times within our own communities which is the
base of where our sovereignty emerges or our autonomy. And that
together with our other brothers and sisters of our other communities, we reproduce this way of directing our affairs.
But we always have the interference of the state and this is what
has not been understood. And they do not want to abandon us.
But we say that we do not want any more paternalism and that
from the 1st of January of '94 in which the Zapatista struggle created a resurgence of the strength of the Indigenous Peoples of
Mexico, we started with a greater strength of process, of recovery of the dignity that had been stolen from us by the invaders.

to be submitted. But we are different peoples and we have to
enter into harmony through cooperation. This is what we are
proposing: that even the Mestizo people be recognized but that
we have historical reparations for all the historical damages that
are being done to us.
So that is the proposal for the reality of our nation state. We do
not know what will happen, we do not know if they will accept it
or not. We have decided to recover our sovereignty, our autonomy....
Margarita Gutierrez, Chiapas, Mexico
Transcript of testimony given April 4, 1996
First Nations International Court of Justice
(Simultaneous translation into English from Spanish)

Now, we are living through a very important process. And very
dangerous because all our regions, all our indigenous regions, all
of the indigenous regions, are full of army, of armed forces.
Because they know that we want everything. And they recognize
that we are in the right but they don't want to accept it and they're
scared. But we also want to contribute, with these values that we
want, to a new reality ... this autonomy and these ways of our
own, of our life in our communities, we want to share it with others. This is an alternative of life for everybody, whether they like
it or not. It is a whole alternative because there are many political and economic models that have collapsed, and now there are
no alternatives ....
... We want to reconstruct a new relationship, even with the
Mexican state of coordination. That has not been the case up until
now because there we are in cohabitation. It is also a reality that
they are there, that they are historical product, those that are not
indigenous, but they do not understand this and we are not there
218

219

7

BACKWORD

Jeannette Armstrong

up up up stay standing up

the ground is sacred

Gathering to form a circle. To hold hands. To dance. To talk
together Each voice cherished; youth, elder, familiar voices and
new voices, voices across language, across vast ground stretching and across deep waters caressing as many fishes as stars.
Each standing ground in their sacred place. Each an electric blue
shimmering strand connecting to the awesome dance around the
center.

•
•
•

-

and here in our midst on my allies' ground ground i stand on
that day how still it was walking up to the great downed pine
across the road
the explosion when it hit the truck sent dust
swirling in slow motion then the war cries and the shots coming from across the lake echoed and joined the sound of birds
calling over the rat tat rat tat tat and long long minutes blurring
the shouting voices from the camp
and the army's incessant
pepperfire multirounds overridden by the ape's roar converging on you encircled so few of you so fragile so fearless
they didn't make it to "carry out orders" that september day at
ts'peten they couldn't too many prayers deflected the bullets
from spilling death blood on sacred ground they couldn't shoot
through the shadows standing next to the trees watching out for
each movement of our people
watching the dancers watching those who came to stop the dance watching the ropes tied
to the tree
faint shapes felt only as wind through pines but
they whispered dance dance for us dance for all earth's prec10us dance hard
the day isn't over there are those still to
break free the sun is burning red there is hunger and thirst
and the suffering is the dance stay standing up up up dance
strong the ground is sacred and each step is heard echoing
loud over the barrage of hostility thudding into and bouncing
off the sacred tree at our center
Standing ground together is that miraculous dance.
Limlimpt

223

BIOGRAPHIES

•

'

l

Biographies

Mahara Allbrett: is from the T'Sleil Waututh Nation (Burrard Band) in
North Vancouver. She has been writing poetry since she was fifteen and
was first published at sixteen. She had a book published in 1970, Ka-lala Poems. She has given numerous poetry readings, including two on
CBC radio and received two Canada Council Awards. She has also performed with Aboriginal Storyteller in Vancouver. Mahara is a Family
Counsellor in private practice and facilitates workshops on a variety of
topics. She is working on her first novel. She likes to dance
(African/Brazilian style) and has a 16 year old daughter, Sarain.
Lee Alphonse: I am 22 years old and in my second year at Malaspena
University College. I intend on earning a BA in Creative Writing. I love
drawing and hope to keep alive the Coast Salish art tradition of my
ancestors. I am Cowichan, Penelakut, and a little Irish, Italian and
French.
Annette Arkeketa (Otoe-Creek) grew up around Tulsa, Oklahoma. She
has been published in numerous anthologies. Annette currently lives in
Corpus Christi, Texas.

•

••

•

Joanne Arnott is a Metis writer, originally from Manitoba. Mother to
four young sons, author of four books, she has recently decided to go
back to school, and enrolled in the Indian Homemakers Association's
Traditional Parenting Program in Vancouver.
Kimberly Blaeser (Anishinaabe), an enrolled member of the
Minnesota Chippewa Tribe, is an Associate Professor of English at the
University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee where she teaches Creative Writing
and Native American Literature. Her publications include, Trailing You
which won the Diane Decorah First Book Award for poetry from the
Native Writers' Circle of the Americas and Gerald Vizenor: Writing in
the Oral Tradition, a critical study. Blaeser's work has also been anthologized in numerous Canadian and American collections including Earth
Song, Sky Spirit, Women on Hunting, The Colour of Resistance,
Returning the Gift, Unsettling America, Narrative Chance, and Blue
Dawn, Red Earth.
Margaret Brusnahan: I was born in Kapunda, South Australia, one of
nine children. My mother was formerly Iris Rankine, an Aboriginal
woman from the Ngarrindgeri people ofRaukkan on the shores of Lake
Alexandrina. My father was Arther Woods, a white man oflrish descent,
from Kapunda. All my brothers and sisters were taken at an early age
and reared in various orphanages, government institutions and white
foster homes, not seeing each other for several years at a time. Writing
has helped me express myself and deal with the traumas of being in one

227

Biographies
Biographies

culture yet reared in another, an Aborigine raised in a white communi~- I ~bje~t to the government system and the unbending institutional
direction it has taken for part-Aboriginal children in my time.

E.K. Caldwell's (Tsalagi\Shawnee) poetry and short stories have been
anthologized in the U.S. and Canada. She is a regular contributor to
lnlifish Magazine, News From Indian Country, and the New York Times
Syndicate multicultural wire service. She is a member of the Native
Writers Circle of the Americas and serves on the National Advisory
Caucus of the Wordcraft Native Writers Circle. Her children's book
Bear, will by published by Scholastic in 1996 as part of their Animal
Legends and Lore Series.
Dorothy Christian is a member of the Spallumcheen Indian Band in
B.C. and is of Okanagan/Shuswap ancestry. While residing in the east
she studied Political Science and Religious Studies at the University of
Toronto. For two years, Ms. Christian served as Chair of the Ontario
Film Revi~w Boa~d before returning to her homelands. Dorothy has
been associated with VISION TV since 1990 and currently produces for
the SKYLIGHT Program of VISION TV. Ms. Christian is published in
Gatherings Vol. II & Vol. V, News in Indian Country and Akwesasne
Notes (Winter Issue l 995).
Crystal Lee Clark, or Miss Chandelier, age 21, currently attends the
En'owkin International School of Writing. She was born at Fort
McMurray, Alberta.
Pansy Collison is from the Eagle Clan of the Haida nation. She lives in
Prince Rupert, British Columbia.
S_tolly Collison is nine years old and in grade four. "Stolly" means "prec10us girl" in the Haida language.
~aren Coutlee is Okanagan of the Upper Nicola Band. Her first published works appeared in the premiere issue of Gatherings in 1990 and
she continues to pursue her writing. She completed Fine Arts at Cariboo
College in Kamloops.
Thomas Edwards is Swampy and High Plains Cree and was born in
The Pas, Manitoba over 27 years ago. He was adopted by a non-Native
f~ily and ra~sed in a mostly Native northern community. Upon graduating he has smce traveled all over the continent seeking the answers to
li~e's greatest mysteries. During the last decade, he has been working
with People of Color and Native organizations in such issues of
HIV/AIDS, Two Spirits and POC political organizing. Thomas currently works for the American Indian Community House HIV/AIDS Project
in New York City.
228

Jack D. 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 and other
background. In 1960-61 he developed proposals for Native American
studies programs and for an indigenous university. In 1971 the D-Q
University came into being as a result of that proposal. Forbes is the
author of numerous books, monographs and articles including
Columbus And Other Cannibals. Only Approved Indians. Apache,
Navaho And Spaniard. and Africans and Native Americans. He is also a
poet, a writer of fiction, and a guest lecturer in Japan, Britain,
Netherlands, Germany, Italy, France, Canada, Belgium, and other countries. 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. He grew up on a half-acre farm in EI Monte
de! Sur in the San Gabriel Valley and in Eagle rock, Los Angeles,
California. 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.
Aztatl (Jose L. Garza) was born in San Antonio, Texas. He is of
Coahuila, Lipan Apache and Mexican heritage. He worked in the automobile and steel factories for six years. After college Aztatl worked as
a social worker and a visual artist for nine years until he decided to
devote full time to creative writing and a serious return to his Nahua
native roots and religion. He and his wife, Kathe A. Kowalski have one
child and a five year old full blood male Siberian Husky dog named
Walking Bear. Aztatl has published three books of short stories and
poetry, Momentos; Masks, Folk Dances and A Whole Bunch More; and
Apple Comes Home. He has been published in over forty anthologies,
literary magazines, newspapers and small press publications. Aztatl currently gives workshops, lectures and readings on indigenous writing and
using our own positive native writing to expose negative racial stereotypes.
William George is Coast Salish from the Tsleil-Waututh Nation (also
known as Burrard Inlet Indian Band) in North Vancouver, B.C. He lives
and writes in the Okanagan. William George has been published in
Gatherings Volumes III, IV and V. He has also been published in
WHETSTONE Magazine, University of Lethbridge and absinthe
Magazine in Calgary, Alberta.

229

Biographies
Biographies

Travis Hedge Coke is fifteen years old and is the son of A.A. Hedge

Michelle Good is of Cree ancestry from Red Pheasant, Saskatchewan.
She is an activist and UBC law student. Michelle is an education writer
and former editor of the Lurnrni Tribal News. She was also past radio
host of Ryerson.

Coke.

B hara Helen Hill is from Six Nations Grand River Territory, located
i::outhern Ontario. She has been published in Gatherings Vol_ume ~I
and has completed a manuscript entitled Shaking the Rattle, which will
be published by Theytus Books in the Fall of 1996.

Patricia Grace is an internationally acclaimed and respected writer
from Aotearoa (New Zealand) and is ofNgati Raukawa, Ngati Toa and
Te Ati Awa descent. She has published five collections of stories, three
novels, four children's books, and the text for Wahine Toa, Women of
Maori Myth. Her work has been widely anthologized in Aotearoa and
internationally. Ms. Grace has won numerous awards including the
Hubert Church Award, Children's Picture Book of the Year, and the New
Zealand Book Award. Her story "Nga ti Kangaru " is from her latest collection The Sky People and other stories.

Lenore Keeshig-Tobias was born on the Neyaashiinigmiing (~~pe
Croker) reserve in Ontario, where she no':' lives ~~d works. In addition
to being an award winning writer, Lenore is a traditional storyteller, culture worker, and the Chairperson of the Chippewas ofNawash Board of
Education.

Michael Fitz Jagamarra is of the W~mung~ ~ibe in Australia. He
has lived in Tennant Creek most of his hfe._ Wn~mg poetry has helped
him to put the troubled times in his life behmd him.

David A. Groulx is Anishnabe, living in Thunder Bay and attending
Lakehead University, where he is working on a BA in Indigenous
Leaming. He is 26 years old and has been writing since he was 16.

Shoshona Kish an Ojibway from Toronto, is a recent graduate of the
En'owkin Interdational School of Writing and Visual Arts program.

Margarita Gutierrez's nationality is Hnahnu, Chiapas, Mexico. She is
the Negotiating Intermediary for the Zapatista movement. Margarita
was also a witness at the International Court of Justice in Ottawa,
Ontario.

Dr. Arvol Looking Horse is Keeper of the Sacred Calf _Pipe of the
Lakota Nakota and Dakota Nation. His speech was given to the
Unrep;esented Nations and Peoples Organization in January 1995.

Raven Hail is an active member of the Cherokee nation. Her poetry and
essays on Cherokee culture have appeared in various publications. She
has also written three novels and a cook book. Raven has been published in Volume V of Gatherings.
A. Allison Hedge Coke: (Huron, Tsalagi, French Canadian,
Portuguese ... ). Her first full-length poetry collection (Look at The Blue)
is forthcoming from Coffee House Press. She has published a chapbook
of poetry and poetry and prose in: Gatherings (IV: V: & VJ). Neon Pow
Wow, Caliban, Subliminal Time, Voices of Thunder, Santa Barbara
Review, eleventh muse, 13th Moon, the Little Magazine, Bomay Gin ('92
& '93 editions), Abiko Quarterly, Both Sides, Tree in the Sky, Looking
at The Words of Our People, Skin Deep: Women Writing About Race and
Colorism, Speaking for the Generations and the Lands, Reinventing the
Enemy's Language, and many others. She received her MFAW Vermont
College ('95), AFA Institute of American Indian Arts, PPPC EHAW.
She is the winner of several literary awards. She teaches Master Classes
at Cal State University Long Beach, and is Area Coordinator for the
California Poets in the Schools (where she has taken long-term residency for the past eighteen months), and additional residencies throughout
the plains and west coast.
230

Randy Lundy is of Cree, Irish, Norwegian and Scottish descent. His
maternal roots lie in Northern Manitoba, along the eastern shores of
Reindeer Lake. He grew up in Hudson Bay, Saskatchewan and has be~n
living in Saskatoon since the fall of 1987. Randy is currently enroll~d m
a Master of Arts program in English and plans to complete a thesis on
Native Literature.

Nora McAdam (Sitting on Mother Earth), is from Leoville,
Saskatchewan. She recently completed the Pelican Lake ABE program
there.

Debbie McHalsie, age 18 is of the Sto:lo Nation, Cha~athil Band and
currently attending the Seabird Island Comrn~nity Learnmg C~ntre. She
enjoys being with friends, writing poetry, gomg for coffee, _go~ng to the
longhouse and pow-wows. She dislikes liver, rumours, prejudiced people, people who like to hurt others and really nosey people.

.
t

.

,

231

Biographies
Biographies

Me_I~ina B. Mack ~uxi!ht~mut) completed the two year Creative
Wntmg course at En o"':'km m the spring of 1995. Melvina returned
home to the Nuxalk Ternto~ taking an active role in the protection of
th
e land fro~ Inte_rfor, ~ l~ggmg corporation. She was arrested in the fall
of 1995 fo~ ~gnormg a mJunction to leave Ista (King Island). Melvina's
curr~nt '_-Vn~mg ~~mes from her own ongoing experience while she
awaits tnal _m Bn~ish Columbia's Women's prison, her poems Ista and
B.C.C.W. dispossible are written from there. And, logging cont·mues ....
Ras~una~ Mardsen: MFA, BA, Graduate Diploma Design, Teacher
Certificat10n, Impressario, Globetrotter. Resides in Vancouver with her
son .. Rashunah currently works in Marketing, Media/Writin
Curnculum Development.
g,
Teresa Marshall is an urban Mi 'kmaq living in Victoria B c B
betw
tw
Id h h
' . . om
. een
'_-VOr _s, s e as necessitated an intense and critical exploration of her identity which she explores through writing, artmaking,
thea_tr~ and research. She has exhibited her artworks throughout Canada
p~rticipa~es as a cultura! researcher and educator in her community and
will pubh_sh her first wntten works in Kelusultiek, an anthology of east
coast Native women writers.

°

L~onard. M_artin is a member of the Bear Clan, within the Roseau
Rive~ An_ishmabe First Nation in Manitoba, where the Roseau River
empties mto the Red River. Leonard is a member of "Sage-F" t
Peoples' Storytellers." This writer's group is a part of the w· . irs
b dAb · ·
mmpeg
ase
ong~nal Arts Group. "Let us live today. For the pains of yesterday have given us the knowledge of a beautiful tomorrow." L.M.
Loui_sa Mianscum My friends know me as Louisa. I speak Cree
E~ghsh and French. I was baptised with the name Emily Louis~
Mia~sc~. I :vas brought up on the land and taught to respect everyones spmtuahty. I am currently living in Northern Quebec.
H~~ry Michel i_s Secwepemc from the Sugar Cane Reserve in central
British Columbia. He has poetry published in Seventh Generation
Theytus Books Ltd, Voices Under One Sky, Nelson Canada Ltd. and
Volume V of Gatherings.
Marijo Moore, of Cherokee descent, grew up in the extremely small
western Tennessee town of Crockett-Mills. During her twenties she
mo_ved . to Na_shville, Tennessee and attended Tennessee State
University. While there, she_ authored a chapbook of poetry, Clarity of
Purpose and co-authored with Benjamin Cummings, an Oglala Sioux

from the Pine Ridge Reservation, a non-fiction book entitled Beside R
Singing Star-The Last Four Years With Willie Nelson, Jr.. Her play, Your
Story was produced at Lancashire Community Theatre in Preston,
England, 1991. While living in England, she was directed by dreams to
move to the mountains of western North Carolina to research her
Cherokee roots. Her latest book is Returning To the HomelandCherokee Poetry And Short Stories. She now resides in Asheville, North
Carolina where she has recently finished a forthcoming book of poetry,
Spirit voices of bones and a children's book, Amonetta, gourd Sam and
the Cherokee Little People. She was recently awarded a literature grant
from the NC Writers Network, and another from Buncombe County;
Asheville, NC Regional Art Council. She is currently gathering material for a seven-part novel on American Indian women, co-authoring a
non-fiction book with Jonathan L. Taylor, principal chief of the Eastern
Band of Cherokees (1987-1995), and teaching workshops on American
Indian Spirituality and Writing. She serves on the Board of The North
Carolina Writers Storytellers. Her work has appeared in several publications.

Dawn Karima Pettigrew is a graduate of Harvard University in
Cambridge, MA. She teaches English at the Ohio State University and
is presently working on her M.F.A. She is of Cherokee, Creek and
Chickasaw descent, which in the United States, is enough to make anybody start to tell stories. She tries to pray as often as she breathes.
Rosemary Plummer was born at Phillip Creek Mission in Central
Australia. She is a Warumungu woman and one of the traditional owners of the Tennant Creek area. She is Chairperson of Papulu-Apparr
Kari, the Tennant Creek Language Centre, and is studying linguistics at
Batchelor College.
Mickie Poirier is a self-taught artist, using what she has teamed in photography, emcology, botany and ornithology to enhance her art.
Stephen Pranteau I was born, on a cold (when isn't it cold on) February
3, 1949, of Cree parents, where the Saskatchewan River empties into
Lake Winnipeg, in Northern Manitoba. I know little of the life that my
parents experienced. My traditional education was interrupted by a massive Hydro Dam project. Prior to that I had to speak Cree, on the "Keemootch" which meant, "on the sly, or at least without the knowledge
of... whomever, in this instance ... teachers." I attended school at Cranberry
Portage, in Northern Manitoba, the University of Brandon, in 1969 and
The University of Wirmipeg. Lack of commitment to education as well
other priorities such as a new born daughter helped me decide to leave

232
233

Biographies

Biographies

university early. I've been working recently as an evaluator of a program
in the North Shore in Vancouver. My prior experience has been with
child welfare in Manitoba and Ontario as a worker, director, actively
involved in policy development and analysis. I was employed for a number of years as a probation officer and a parole officer.
Brenda Prince is Anishinabe born and raised in Winnipeg, Manitoba.
She has also lived in Calgary, Victoria, Vancouver and Penticton where
she graduated from the En'owkin School of Writing. She is one of three
recipients of the 1995/96 Simon Lucas Jr. Scholarship award. Brenda
has also been published in Volume VI of Gatherings.
Sharron Proulx-Turner of Calgary, Alberta is a member of the Metis
Nation of Alberta (Mohawk, Huron, Algonquin, French and Irish ancestors). She is currently working on her second book, which is a book of
poetry, "she is reading her blanket with her hands."
Lois Red Elk, Yankton, Hunkpapa, Santee Sioux, is an enrolled member of the Fort Peck Sioux Tribe and lives on her reservation in
Northeastern Montana. She is an award winning actress (TNT's LAKOTA WOMAN, 1994), and has written poetry since the age of twelve. She
also practices the traditional art of porcupine quill embroidery and
enjoys playing the piano. She has a degree in Human Services and is
presently a freelance writer.
Paora Ropata. Born in Lower Hutt New Zealand in 1961, Paora Ropata
grew up in Porirua, a working class town that eventually became a city
a half hour's drive from the capital of Wellington.
His Whakapapa (genealogy) links him to the Iwi of Ngati Toa
Rangatira, Te Ati Awa, and Ngati Raukawa from his father's people, and
from the Ngati Porou Iwi of Te Tai Rawhiti (the East coast ) on his
mother's side. Divorced with 1 son and 2 daughters, he likes to use
humour to drive home certain points throughout the narrative. In 1995,
Paora won a National short story competition for new Maori writers but
has been writing infrequently as his work in Maori (The Indigenous
People of Aotearoa) Language Broadcasting takes up his time. He is
working on a collection of short works to be published in 1997.
Armand Garnet Ruffo is Ojibway from Chapleau, Northern Ontario.
His first book of poetry Opening In The Sky is published by Theytus
Books Ltd.

234

Lillian Sam I am a graduate of the Creative Writing Program at
En'owkin International School of Writing in Penticton, B.C. My tribal
origins are from the Carrier Nation. In the past I worked for various
Tribal organizations in Northern Central B.C. I worked as a Family Care
Worker in my community of Fort St. James for close to eight years.
Other jobs I had were gathering data for Land claims issues, and working with the Nak'azdli Elders Society taping elders and transcribing oral
stories. During 1984 I worked with the National Indian Veterans
Association in Prince George. In my job as a researcher, I compiled
data, organized travel throughout the interior of B.C., and interviewed
Native veterans who had served in World War I, and World War II.
Marlowe Gregory Sam is a rancher and his tribal affiliation is
Wenatchee/Okanagan from Desautle, Washington. He is a cultural
instructor and works in conflict resolution.
Moana Sinclair's tribal affiliation is Rangitane, Ngati Raukawa, Ngati
Toa Rangatira, Ngai-Tahu and Maniapoto. She has a strong background
in the Maori sovereignty movement and is a solicitor at the Youth Law
Project. She attended the Maori university Te Whare Wananga O
Raukawa. Moana is the editor of the Youth Law Review and co-founder
of the Te Kawau Maro, an activist group opposed to the Fiscal Envelope
and the Government's denial of Maori sovereignty. She is currently
working on a novel called Muri and Mahana.
Faith Stonechild is from Saskatchewan and is of Sioux and Cree ancestry. She has two children aged 25 and 13, and one grandaughter named
"Sage." She enjoys sewing and her writing includes stories and her life
experiences.
Alf Taylor is an Aboriginal poet from Australia. Two collections of his
poetry Singer Songwriter and Winds have been published by Magabala
Books.
Dr. Haunani-Kay Trask is a professor, the Director of the Centre for
Hawaiian Studies at the University ofHawai'i, a leader in the Hawaiian
sovereignty movement, and the author of From a Native Daughter:
Colonialism and Sovereignty in Hawai 'i, a collection of political essays,
and Light in the Crevice Never Seen, a collection of poetry.
Richard Van Camp is a Dogrib Dene from the Northwest Territories.
A graduate of the En'owkin International School of Writing, he is currently finishing his degree at the University of Victoria in Writing. His
first novel The Lesser Blessed will be out in October of 1996 with
Douglas & McIntyre.
235

Biographies

Gerry William is a member of the Spallumcheen Indian Band, in south
central British Columbia. The Black Ship, the first in a series of novels
under the general title of Enid Blue Starbreaks is being published by
Theytus Books Ltd. Gerry is currently completing the third novel in this
series.
Kenny Williams is an Aboriginal poet from Australia. Born in Tennant
Creek, Kenny has worked as a teacher's aide. He writes to tell people
about the past and to show that there is a positive future.
Chandra Winnipeg was born on the Siksika rez some years back
(1967). Aside from work and school she loves to read and writes in personal her personal journals.

own

Theytus Books Ltd.
P.O. Box 20040
Penticton, BC
V2A 8K3
236