he En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples dited by Florene Belmore Eric Ostrowidzki .. ~ I ~ ' t ! i • Gatherings Volume XII t I The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples Transformation Fall 2001 •~ i I t t• edited by Florene Belmore & Eric Ostrowidzki Theytus Books Ltd. Penticton, BC ,. l Table of Contents Gatherings The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples Volume XII 2001 Florene Belmore Eric Ostrowidzki Editor's Note/7 Editor's Note/9 Copyright © 200 I for the authors SECTION 1 - Naked Truth National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data Main entry under title: Annie Rose Major Naked Truth/13 A Little Cube/15 Cathy Ruiz Passion/16 In Winnipeg/18 Those Letters/20 Janet Rogers Warrior Reflection/22 Amy-Jo Setka Tilt/24 D.D.Moses Flaming N ativity/26 Mary Caesar A Dedication/31 School ofHorrors/32 Hands of Rage and Wrath/33 Mariel Belanger Always and Forever/35 As the Days Pass/36 My Brother and Me/36 White Wol£'37 Barbara Vibbert Left Behind/38 The Crows/39 Karen Olson The Red Top/41 Heather Harris Coyote and the Anthropologist/48 The Question of Cousins/SO Gatherings Annual. ISSN 1180-0666 ISBN 1-894778-00-6 1. Canadian literature (English)--Indian authors--Periodicals. * 2. Canadian literature (English)--Periodicals.* 3. American literature-Indian authors--Periodicals. 4. American literature--Periodicals. I. En'owkin International School of Writing. II. En'owkin Centre. PS8235.16G35 C810.8'0897 CS91-0314837 PR9194.5.I5G35 Editorial Committee: Florene Belmore, Eric Ostrowidzki and Greg Young-Ing Cover Art: Debby Keeper Design: Florene Belmore Typesetting/Proofing: Chick Gabriel, Leanne Flett Kruger and Audrey Huntley Please send submissions and letters to Gatherings, En'owkin Centre, R.R. 2, Site 50, Comp.8 Penticton, BC, V2A 6J7, Canada. Previously published works are not considered. The publisher acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, the Department of Canadian Heritage and the British Columbia Arts Council in the publication of this book. SECTION 2 - Reflection I t t • t Debby Keeper See/55 I want to feel... /56 i am/57 'F" Table of Contents Table of Contents Jack D. Forbes In the Dunes/58 Suspended Animation/66 Getaway/70 Charles L. Mack Repo Cowboys ... /79 Candy Zazulak Frogman/86 Sandra A. Olsen Across Many Miles/87 Connie Crop Eared Wolf My Friend Tamra/90 Theresa G. Norris Maria/91 Brent Peacock Frustration/97 William George Squamish Floods/99 They Rose And So Shall I/101 MariJo Moore Atop Palacca on First Mesa/I 02 Bemelda Wheeler Education is Our Buffalo/I I I The Souls Inside of Them/114 Fran Pawis For the Children/145 Inspiration Encourages Transformation/ 146 Soon/147 April Severin Testimony/149 Shirley Brozzo My People Paid/150 Misshepeshu/152 Gordon de Frane Oldest Medicine in the World/154 Eric Ostrowidzki Yo, Brown Skinned Girls ... /161 Richard Van Camp Twenty Music Videos ... /168 I Go Bazook!/172 SECTION 4 - Redemption Kimberly TallBear A Nomad's Sleep/175 Strange Gift/176 Between Nations/179 Anonymity/180 Rasunah Marsden Refuge/181 R. Vincent Harris Souls, Fire, Air, Water, Feathers/186 Janet Rogers Life Beat/190 Jerry L. Gidner Flute/192 Mary Caesar Northern Sky Dancers/194 Sherri L. Mitchel Sky Woman/195 Amy-Jo Setka Tea Ceremony/196 Allison Hedge Coke Memoir Excerpt - Fish/198 Tracey Kim Jack Stars for Mary/201 Theresa G. Norris David the Bear/204 SECTION 3 - Metamorphosis Bemelda Wheeler Requiem for a Country Daughter/119 Bradlee LaRocque Failing Peyote 101/121 Duane Niatum The Story of Our Name/122 Karen Olson Blood of the Earth/127 Margaret McKay-Sinclair Ruiz My Memoirs/134 Janet Duncan unchartered territory/ 13 7 Donald Blais Timely License Deliberately Circumnavigated/140 Karen Coody Cooper As The Prow Cuts Through Water/143 ' Table of Contents Editors Note Carolyn Kenny The Dream and the Vision/208 Linda LeGarde Grover Migwechiwendam (English)/213 Migwechiwen/2 I 4 Redemption/215 SECTION 5 - Horizons: Voices of Our Youth Joleen Terbasket Canoe Trip/221 Joseph Louis Caged/222 Johnny Lee Bonneau Relate/223 Rachel Bach and Leah Morgan Star Gars/224 Shawn Wildcat Untitled/229 Shannon Wildcat Generations/230 Looking Back/231 Biographies/233 We are once again proud to present another annual volume of of Gatherings: The En 'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples. The theme of Volume XII is "Transformation" and the work by Indigenous authors in the sections within will take you through personal journeys of realization, reflection, change and coming to terms with new realities. As the Western World bows its head in an uneasy fear that the global order is forever transformed, we sympathize with the memory of the many massacres and acts of violence that have been inflicted upon Indigenous Peoples in various parts of the world, including Canada, the United States, Mexico, Guatemala, Chile, New Caledonia, East Timor, Rawanda and Tibet. The tenacity of Indigenous Peoples is testimony that nations under threat can reach down deep and endure through difficult times ensuring their protection and survival. Through the metamorphosis from colonization to de-colonization, Indigenous Peoples have also gone through great individual transformations many of which you will read about in the following pages. As with each new volume of Gatherings, a wide range of genres and perspectives are featured and it is always a pleasure to publish this collection of fresh and vibrant Indigenous voices. In Strength, Florene Belmore 7 I i II Editors Note Asked to write about how I felt reading these writers as I worked on Gatherings XII, I first noticed that there were similarities in the writing. There are voices coming from the same place of crouching darkness or smooth soaring curve of blue sky; common spools of ideas; and the deep-textured whorl of lived lives. Convergent histories - radiating and scintillating and dimming like a holographic medallion whose shifting image is too bright or too vast to behold. With each black lettered page, I began to hear that these writers have all come from different regions, have had different experiences of grit, laughter and beauty, have different ways of the lean and arch of the body and the tilt of the face towards the sun. And then I began to detect within these many voices within those rustling currents of live speech - the differences in diction and meanings and stories, of rhythms jotted or typed in the murmuring codes of blood. The ineffable power of their language and talent, bellowing or singing! Yet despite the similarities or differences or the accuracy or inaccuracy of my own observations, there was an image that lingered on in my mind long after reading these pieces. Aided by graphic signs on these pages, I imagined millions of signal fires burning hotly and greenly across these Indigenous nations - not like the light-board of a "Sprint Telemarketing Map" - but fires communicating in emerald tongues with each other far into deepest night and across the plains of tomorrow. All My Relations, Eric Ostrowidzki 9 Naked Truth Annie Rose Major Naked Truth Naked truth, intense, lying there with open arms, All feeling gone, silence in death, Revealing itself as dawn awakens, Not a breath to tell Naked truth, who knows, only the night holds its secret, A whisper here a whisper there reveals its ingredient, Silent as a panther, Stalking its prey with death in its paws Naked truth, a victim stands alone in a darkened street, Inviting its enemy, caught unaware, Wearing its addiction like a crown Naked truth, steadily the enemy approaches, Leading its victim now Above the darkened street To its hellish haven Naked truth, silence as dead as the night, Echoes of days gone by, It feeds its disgusting thirst Naked truth with its tainted black liquid And stiff pressed suits, It lures its prey And strikes its deathly blow Naked truth with a drive so intense It strikes again and again, Never giving an edge, Only to its black liquid 13 Annie Rose Major Annie Rose Major Naked truth has reached its climax, Slipping beneath the carpeted hallways, Smelling its deathly smell Naked truth slipping out into society, Pains echoes out into the night, The panther has been discovered Naked truth, it's shackled now, This tainted liquid Placed upon its heathen throne, Bowing now to hide its guilt Naked truth, its tainted soul has been released Out into society where it began its reign, Roaming free ... to strike again. 14 A Little Cube A little here, A little there, A nibble here, A chew there, A little cube, I did bite, Now I shiver, Into the night, A little shiver, A little shake, A quiver here, A tremble there, A little cube I did bite, Now I shiver, Into the night. 15 Cathy Ruiz Cathy Ruiz Passion For Michelle. BC, Canada - 1995 She took two fillet knives, walked into the bathroom folded herself, tall, slender into the tub then sank the blades, once, twice, three times, into her chest. "She took two fillet knives, walked into the bathroom folded herself, tall, slender into the tub then sank the blades, once, twice, three times, into her chest." I saw her wounded, 23-year-old body, her life, now a breath running past me. So passionate, I thought, before whispering, "Good bye." I, far away, took my third bite of Chinese food watching my former lover's eyes, his lips remember how lightening and thunder sliced the skies while we lay entangled under trees. As life flowed from her pale body, inching over enamel and into the drain, the bathroom light grew smaller and smaller in her eyes, while smoke curled from his cigarette to the ceiling above the table where I sat. Her father bent over her, suffering the limp heart that had never known a man's love, carried away on a stretcher while I dismissed myself from the table, seeing again in his smile how he played women like dice, but wouldn't I still love to kiss him. As she lay prone on a morgue bed, brown eyes, stilled spirit staring, I slept fitfully with the past, the future, until the telephone drew my mother's voice, into my ear, "Michelle killed herself last night." 16 17 r Cathy Ruiz In Winnipeg Shrouded in darkness, a Manitoba town hung suspended, captured in a haze of thirty-seven below. In Winnipeg, a frozen wasteland awaited to pack me in its cold storage. Muffied city, lost in a maze of six-foot snow drifts, still welcomed a Metis daughter. Cathy Ruiz back to earth to dance one last time with the rest of the tribe. "The swish you hear is the movement of their dress," my mother's voice reminded in the silence. At midnight, a wailing train across the Assiniboine River told me to abandon my post while the full moon, riding high above the city, taunted, "Crawl under the covers and hibernate!" Hotel lobby, heated cabin at the end of an airport trapline, was a sacred place for loons and geese, calling out from marshes and lakes in the red, black, yellow, and blues of traditional Native painting. Tall, black-haired Metis businessmen, grinning shyly, slapped black buckskin muckluks and gloves, bright beads, white fur trim gleaming on the hotel desk, their sweet whisperings clicked with Cree tongues rode with me up to the 22nd floor. My thoughts, my heart, beat along with Native drumming in nearby rooms, while through ice-framed windows puffs of steam rose like ghosts spreading ethereal fingers toward the sky. My hopes sang for the northern lights-the spirits of Elders come 18 19 Cathy Ruiz Cathy Ruiz Those Letters I burned those letters that I'd kept locked in a heavy black chest that always took two to move. I'd hung onto those words for too long. Too long I'd treated those letters like they were prec10us weapons, carved my needs with their words; included their final ritual in my will. bits of which whirled up and over the treetops and I, down below, my heart beat warm in my chest. Did they speak of love? Perhaps. But I treated them as though they held the only secret of my life in love. Well, I finally let go of all that. I tossed those letters into a box, then, out the door, into a wheelbarrow and across the yard they went. Landed right on top of a big bonfire of brush and brambles. Clearing land you know. I had to. I stood there and watched as those old words that once kept my heart cold-loss can be like that-tum brown, the pages curl and the lines of ink smear into char, until those letters became a fine, black tissue, 20 21 Janet Rogers Janet Rogers Warrior Reflection I am up early, and in bed just after sunset. You know, I've even taken an interest in sewing lately Walking down the street, I passed a store window that had an attractive red shirt I thought I would like to buy then I realized it was the Eddie Bauer store. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME? Last week, a gang of boys passed my house, making noise, rough-housing. They looked to be 14 or 15 years old. As I watched them pass from the safety of my own home, I picked out 1 or 2 of them I wouldn't mind doing. WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO ME? My spirit used to be reckless and winning, proud and stinging. Now it bows to prudence and patience, wisdom and willingness. What has tamed my penchant for danger? And what fields is the Red Warrior in me now riding through? Has she forsaken me at the cost of a steady pay cheque? Will I meet her again somewhere down the road? Upon our meeting, she may well ask, WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME? WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU? I noticed lately, I drive my car everywhere. To friends, to work, to the post office, to the Chinese food place around the comer from me. And as I rolled into a parkade downtown where the rate was $2.50 per hour, I remember thinking, that's a fair price. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME? I almost watched a Barbara Streisand movie the other day. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME? I went on a trip, met a guy, we had an affair and when I left he invited me to visit him in his town. I actually thought he was serious there for a second. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO ME? The grey hair is coming in all over, the skin is becoming loose. My taste for candy and crisps is still intact, but my stomache wages war afterward. 22 23 Amy-Jo Setka Amy-Jo Setka A moment of clarity where we can see beyond There are ways to live in this world with grace lightness and trust in the gift of all that is or ever will be This is a place of infinite possibilities. Amen. Tilt 1 Been thinking, ranting in my head Can this panicky feeling be helped? The invisible hand is crushing us money media manifest destiny 0 no O no the WTO Gas masks illegal Prices soaring for products to further pollute the planet voices drowned in pepper, batons, boots and bullets rubber or not they are shooting the people Acts committed daily in white supremacist society destroy dignity Evil Pain Injustice Lies Conspiratorial Industrial Military web Corporate control of Neo-colonial domination Who holds the patent on your stem cells? This battle began long ago everyday the casualties pile up as they report the losses in blase bourgeois voices We swear we can smell the bodies How can the people win without playing their game? Are we conscious or critical Cargill Kraft Dupont General Electric Coca fucking Cola Mcmurder the Mcmasses Economic reality built on brutality and the lie of never ending growth 2 Our money goes to Feed the soldiers Buy the bullets Slaughter the trees Can't read the newspapers, we've used all our tears The invisible hand is killing us We must find our footing face the monster face first with hearts full so we can begin We have to do this right and now Together. We have been divided for so long, How do you think we lost control? 24 25 Daniel David Moses Daniel David Moses Flaming Nativity So have you heard the one about the faggot Indian? Maybe I should have said "the Indian faggot." Oh, whichever epithet I might choose to use hardly makes much difference. Your answer is most likely "No." Hey, why use two, both sticks and stones, why overdo it, when either one would be sufficient to the put down? Yeah, either one has always been enough to build a good story around. Until now, of course, when some of them Indians have begun to ram this damn political - or is it historical or cultural? - correctness down our throats. Why can't they take a joke? Hell, talk about doing Kawlija. First Nations? Just what is the story there? It sounds like a brand of diapers. Native renaissance, my ass. On second thought, never mind my ass. "Hey, have you heard the one about the First Nation faggot?" just doesn't work. Oh joke, where is thy sting? And - wouldn't you know it? - now they're starting to reassert stories about their national identities. It was so much simpler when they all were just Indians. Hey, you can't live in the past. We're supposed to be able to tell that there's something different between that Cree and this Delaware or whatever? Aren't we all just Canadians? Who's doing the coyote calls? And now that they're rediscovering their traditional cultures, some of them are actually trying to do away with that old and trusty set of insults, faggot, fairy, queer, sissy - even the kids can use them! - and replace them with this New Agey sounding 'two-spirit' thing. I mean, talk about limp wristed. Aren't Indians supposed to be warriors? Real men? That's the story I'm used to hearing. And what about their morals? They do not to seem to give an American plug nickel that the Judeo-Christian God might not like this threat to the fertility of the tribe. Yeah, strangely enough, it seems like their Gitchy Manitou, their Great Mystery, actually made some people queer so they could serve, in the interest of harmony, as intermediaries between the divisions of the world, women and men, life and death - us and Ottawa maybe. What next? Jesus and all the apostles notwithstanding, if this keeps up, 'gay' is going to start sounding really normal. Oh for the days of yore when it was just something Christmasy, whenever that was ... "Have you heard the one about the two-spirited Cree?" just isn't funny. So what about this 'Fireweed' play by William (Billy) Merasty? What about its cutely ironic subtitle 'An Indigeni Fairy Tale' ? Well, okay, okay, if we are to believe what it says, maybe I should have said "Have you heard the one about the two-spirited Cree? It isn'tjust funny." It's also glamourous in the original sense, charming our imaginations with actual magic tricks as well as a full hand of more usual theatrics - fire, light and lightning, sound, character, stories and their telling. Its central story of a journey toward healing and home is also a story about escaping that dark side of glamour, the curse, which is laid down in this particular plot by, of course, a man in black, a priest. We would be offended by this pitiful church bashing if we were not also being teased by this twist on the usual fairy tale, this seemingly new or at least naughty and possibly even feminist (Who knew Native culture would have to do with women too?) point of view- although ifwe are to trust the teller, it is an ancient way of seeing. No wonder, despite all the anguish of the story's journey, it remains seductive, mysterious, erotic. Which is of course why, though 'Fireweed' may be the first one we here have heard tell of these doubly epitheted individuals, faggot Indians, Indian faggots, it is certainly not going to be 26 27 about Billy Merasty's 'Fireweed' Daniel David Moses Daniel David Moses the last. Who knew we could get into such bent and effeminate territory by following this Native renaissance movement? Who knew a Native nativity might involve more than feathered headdresses and war paint, and how, yes, how the Hiawatha did they keep quiet about it for so long? How the heart ofMerasty's 'Fireweed' aches for lost loves, for suicides and those who are taught by the church to hate themselves, the queers and the Indians. But then it remembers how heart beats go on. Its central character Peechweechum Rainbowshield, referred to hereafter as Rainbow, thrown into a holding cell in nothing but his underwear, insulted and assaulted by a police officer, somehow pulls a little red dress, lip stick and high heels out of nowhere. The beautiful young man proceeds to do a drag musical number as his version of the great escape act, disappearing, the vanishing Indian, from that Winnipeg jail into the dream stream of the play. He slips through the iron bars and stones of the white man's law and religion and right into his and our community's mythology much the same way his predecessor, the legendary medicine dreamer, Isiah Iskootee'oo, did in the long ago to the frustration of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Isiah Iskootee 'oo escaped punishment, the story goes, for setting fire to the bush, destroying Her Majesty's timber. But now that we have recovered the knowledge - the Native renaissance again that burning was used traditionally to manage forest environments and facilitate hunting, Isiah Iskootee'oo's misdemeanor appears in a more heroic light. So the scene in 'Fireweed' where Rainbow escapes, theatrically, magically, perhaps - yes - perhaps incredibly (it is early in the renaissance after all), from laws that would punish him for a crime called 'Gross Indecency' may just be a first and teasing glimpse ofrecovered knowledge, an alternative mythology, and some common sense about sexual behavior. The scene is certainly pivotal to the play, erupting sponta- neous theatrical combustion, burning down the fourth wall. The character Rainbow is allowed to step out of the narrative, as well as his cell, and play with and to us in the audience, just like the characters of the Flight Attendant or Reena Lightningway or even the Judge who are all spirits and not limited by flesh and blood bodies or dramaturgical realities. 'Fireweed' before this scene is a story about Rainbow, a young man haunted and made almost hopeless by the suicide of his beloved twin brother in the inferno of a burning church. He is haunted by the possibility that he, a medicine minded young Cree, as the object not only of his rather Catholic brother's love but of his sexual desire, may have been the cause of a great sin - is the dilemma faith or homosexuality or incest or all the above? He fears he may have been the cause of his brother's suicide. This spiritual murkiness is lit only by the presence of the above mentioned guardian spirits (the 'fairy god parents' the play's ironic subtitle invokes) and the Manitoba Legislature's Golden Boy, emblem here of the possibility of love. The play suggests a version of Winnipeg that is a sort of hell on earth, streets where sex, drugs, and rock and roll are never expressions of growth, exploration, joy and youth, but always mean meaningless, directionless despair. Rainbow's little red dress number redresses this. After its performance, like magic, the story, the stories 'Fireweed' tells take on a motive, become hopeful, helpful, loving, and shift Rainbow toward reconciliation with his two-spirited self and his family (his most Catholic mother) and his community (his auntish medicine teacher). He is saved at the same time his former lover Raven is lost. It may be that because Rainbow is able to accept and express, even so campily, his own female spirit that he finds his way home. Rainbow's little red dress number acts like a front door into a strangely familiar house, a dream world, a memory of adolescence when the erotic was more than the body, was what the 28 29 Daniel David Moses Mary Caesar whole world was about. The drag number is itself the essence of queer, two-spirited, both true and false, male and female, and is the play's intermediary between us (the audience) and them, our forgotten desires, our bodies. The home Rainbow returns to is a place not only of pristine wilderness but also of ancient stories, a mythology that is a way to wisdom about our lives, about the body and its hungers. No wonder Rainbow needs to hear again the ones about Weesageechak, the Cree trickster, needs to relive one of that great spirit's adventures. The Weetigo, that embodiment of morbid hunger, traps and threatens to eat Weesageechak, much as western civilization does with Indians. Only Weesageechak's own cunning and the help of a weasel who is willing to journey into the Weetigo's body, via its anus and inners, allows Weesageechak to survive -and the weasel to be beautiful. What more visceral, funny, and queer representation of a journey into and through our fears or lives could we ask for? Hey, shit happens. Have you heard the one about the Indian faggot and Weesageechak and the Weetigo? Yeah. It proves things have a way of working out in the end. 30 A Dedication This is a dedication for the residential school survivors who have passed on. There were so many. They will not be forgotten. They have suffered but did not survive to tell their stories. But we know that their suffering and pain were not in vain. That their lives were not wasted. They were our brave, silent warriors. Their lives of hardship and suffering were the evidence and testimonies of their experiences in the residential school system. Their memories will forever be carried and cherished in our hearts and honoured and revered in our history. 31 Mary Caesar Mary Caesar School of Horrors Hands of Rage and Wrath I was eager to go to that mysterious school that my sisters went to. My sisters would arrive home from the holidays looking scrubbed, groomed and educated. I was excited about going to that mythical school. I would daydream and anticipate the day I would board the vehicle that would bring me there. I did not know where this elusive school was. I only knew that I was a very inquisitive and curious child. I wanted to go to that intriguing school that my sisters attended. In reality, it was fifteen miles south of my hometown. I wanted to learn to read and write. I later learned I had no choice in the matter. My parents would have been jailed if they did not send us children there. My sisters would bring home books, scribblers and toys, but they came back traumatized. I sensed it in their quietness. They weren't the same. They became subdued. Later on in my childhood years, I brought home my scribblers, books and dolls. I learned to be prim and proper but I was becoming rebellious in a quiet, seething way. The day I was rounded up to begin my education at the school was a sad, emotional day. I felt sad because my Mom and Dad didn't come with me. When I arrived at the school, I immediately felt abandoned and rejected. I stepped off the vehicle, walked up the steps of the school and looked up at the monstrous monolithic building before me. The school was surrounded by a forest that was my sanctuary for the next four years I was imprisoned there. It would be the beginning of my introduction to the school of horrors, that would forever change every aspect of my life. I still feel the sting of her hands on my face as she struck me. See her raising her hands, wagging her stiff forefinger to me in accusation. Hear the echo of her voice as she raised her voice to a shrill whine, scolding me with her index finger. She'd close her hands in a fist and move her index finger in a fast jerking motion like a moment captured in a cubist-futurist painting. She reminded me of an army sergeant from the Gestapo. Her favourite expression was, "You mark my words, Lady Jane, just wait 'til I get my hands on you, I'll box your ears! Maybe then, you'll pay attention!" She'd cuff me on different areas of my head, whenever and wherever she'd find it convenient to satisfy her warped sense of self-righteous and sadistic hunger. She'd appear out of nowhere, out of the blue, unannounced, unwelcomed. She'd appear like a fierce tornado to interrupt our childhood moments of camaraderie, in the hallways, in the dorms, in the recreation rooms, to unleash her hatred, her contempt and wickedness. She caught us off guard when we were not aware of her. Everyday she'd find excuses to punish us to satisfy her atrocious actions. She'd say with disdain, "I'll box your ears!" Her words dripped with hate as she slurred her favourite expression, many times during the years I was confined at the school. 32 33 Mary Caesar Mariel Belanger She'd shape her hands like a bowl and cuff my ears and on the sides of my head. I saw her "box" a lot of the girls heads during my four year confinement. Always and Forever I need time to be Alone To grieve, to heal To forget all the pain And remember the fun We once had I'll miss you I know I've never Said this to you, Thinking you would Always be here But I love you brother Always and forever 34 35 Mariel Belanger Mariel Belanger As the days pass White Wolf As the days pass by We often sit and wonder why God chose you to walk alone The path from life to the unknown White wolf crying In the middle of the night Perhaps your time was through And that is why he chose you Your stay with us was brief But even five years doesn't diffuse the grief Although your passing was so hard We know above us you'll stand guard For one of these days we anticipate United again will be our fate. Is he calling me this time? Is he calling me? White wolf crying Searching for the one Will it be me this time? Will it be me? White wolf finds me And shakes his head no He doesn't want me It's not my turn White wolf, I ask What have you done with my brother? My brother and me I've heard what Coyote has to say He deceives me with his trickery He says, "Come with me and I'll Show you the way" He's been to see you and Knows where you stay White wolf cries I have found him a better place These poems are dedicated to my brother Marcel Louis Philippe Ducan (JR.) Belanger, May 21, 1978 to November 15, 1995. I fight him back, knowing what's true Creator found better things for you Still Coyote calls with howls to the moon "You can't see him but I will soon" I cry to Creator, "Show me the way" He tells me, "Be patient there will come a day" And for this day I anxiously wait My brother and me in destiny's fate. 36 37 Barbara Vibbert Barbara Vibbert Left Behind The Crows Left behind memories of a mother's breast rocky crests all the rest Odawa ways. The Crows, the Crows Came winging in On scudding skies And howling winds Cawing, cawing From western shore By twos and threes They came, still more Left behind isolation of new ways learned stomach churned small eyes burned under alien roof. Frantic, frantic Gathering now On cedar tree On every bough Left behind devastation of sisters dead future dread as she said I will move on. Chatter, chatter Loud and raucous They gathered there As if to caucus Hundreds, hundreds Loud and boisterous Flapping feathers Strident voices Left behind memories of a life lived bold time grown old embers cold she's laid to rest. Blackened branches Limbs aquiver They rose as one Raven shimmer Flying, flying Hither and yon No more, no more The crows are gone! 38 39 Karen Olson Barbara Vibbert Shimmer, shimmer Through rays of sun A rainbow frames The tree. Storm's done. The Red Top Sandra Roan looked toward the doorway of the crumbling apartment building trying to remember if she'd ever enjoyed living there. The door was new; dark wood with brass fixtures that gleamed in the pale twilight. "Of course, it's the only way," she said. Two days later, a brilliant sunset faded to lush lavender as she turned into the parking lot of Buffalo Skull Lodge. Sandra could see the dark hulk of War Mountain in the distance. The tiny Vega shimmied over to a battered blue truck with a white eagle feather sticker peeling off the driver's window. A real eagle feather hung on a red ribbon from the rearview mirror. The car door creaked open. Cool evening air scented with wood smoke assailed her. Sandra looked at the mountain. Most of one side was carved off; a jagged treeline neared the middle, but mere root and trunk were no match for solid rock and the trees petered out. She turned when the door to the bar opened; country music blared, the smell of stale beer and smoke reached her. A man wearing a denim shirt with embroidered blue horses on the sleeves and faded jeans stood in the doorway. She didn't know him until the crooked smile. "Don!" she exclaimed. Her brother covered the ground in three strides, then wrapped Sandra in his arms. "It's been too long," she murmured. Sandra stepped back. She wasn't surprised that she hadn't know him. He'd grown at least two feet. "Look at you. You must be tall as Dad," she said cheerily. Don snaked an arm around her waist. "Not quite. He has an inch over me. But you, you haven't changed at all. You're still beautiful. Are you as bossy as ever?" Sandra laughed, "Remember when I used to make you wear just one leg of your pajamas. You'd shuflle along with 40 41 Karen Olson Karen Olson both feet sticking out. You looked so funny." Don shook his head saying, "What about when you used to make me eat lemons? You told me they were sour oranges." Sandra chuckled as he continued, "Funny thing is, I like lemons now. People around here eat 'em with salt." They were at the door when Sandra suddenly stopped. She didn't like being around drunks. Since being groped by a group of drunken boys one night during college, she'd avoided bars. Instead, she went to movies or took art lessons. That's how she met Carter Mason; at an oil painting class. "I thought we could just meet Dad for coffee," Sandra said hesitantly. Don tilted his head. "There's just a few regulars in there. Don't worry, they're harmless," he said with another lopsided gnn. "I don't go to bars," said Sandra. Don pulled the door open. A whiskey-voiced woman was singing about lost love on a highway to nowhere. Wisps of smoke glided out the open door. Sandra took a step backward but Don's hand on her back gently pushed her inside. "C'mon. You'll be okay. It's where Dad always hangs out anyway. Might as well get to know it," he said. Three old men sitting nearby looked at them. Sandra saw a man try to stand up but he couldn't quite make it and fell back into his seat. His companions laughed. One of them pushed a bottle of beer over which the man took and drank. Sandra turned away, but Don was over at the bar talking to the big woman behind the counter. She looked around. There must have been a hundred tables inside the bar. Five pool tables on the far side had a few young men and women playing at one. A row of beer glasses was on the ledge behind them. A couple sat at a table near the dance floor; the woman was passed out. Sandra watched her lean to the left, perch there momentarily then slowly move to the right. "You wanna go?" Don said. "Sure. I feel really out of place," she said. Her brother shook his head. "No. I mean do you wanna go see Dad?" "He's here. Where?" Don led her toward the table with the old men. Smoke rose in great plumes from the forgotten cigarettes smoldering in the ashtray. She recognized none of them. "Who is he? Which one?" she whispered fiercely. The sad love song ended as they reached the table. "Dad. Sandra's come for a visit," Don said loudly. A man in a dirty tan jacket stood shakily: it was the same one who'd tried earlier. Six years had changed him. Grey, tangled hair jutted crazily around a slack face marred wi~h red ~pidery lines across the nose and cheeks. The cracked hp~ smiled showing a few stained teeth. Finally, Sandra recognized the eyes. They were as black and fierce as ever. . " One of the men slapped him on the back saymg, Say something Donny Boy. It's yer girl come back." "Yeah. By God, it's my little Sandy," he mumbled. Sandra was repulsed. Her father lunged toward her. She staggered under the weight, almost gagging ~t the odor ~f urine and shit. He began speaking in Blackfoot which made his companions nod and smile. The thin one with two skinny grey braids leaned backwards, staring. He slurred, "Sure is a pretty little thing. Takes after your side Don. Pretty like your old ma, init?" The other man smiled, his fat face resembling a Buddha statue in she and Carter's favorite antique store. Sandra smiled weakly at them then gently pushed her father away. . "Can we go somewhere, Dad? To talk?" she asked qmetly. Her father sat, taking up a cigarette with a shaking hand. He inhaled and swung his head back and forth. Sandra felt as though she'd been punched in the stomach, but Don's hand _on her arm steadied her. He spoke a few Blackfoot words which seemed to please their father who smiled and jerked his head in 42 43 Karen Olson Karen Olson agreement. "Gert's gonna phone when he's ready to come home," said Don, gesturing to the woman he'd been talking to. Without another word they left. The air felt cool on her flushed face. Sandra took several deep breaths. Twinkling lights from a towering sign turned her bare arms blue. Traffic roared in the background. Sandra wanted to get back on the highway to her life in Calgary. Don's voice stopped her. "Feel like leaving don't you?" Sandra lowered her eyes and nodded wearily. "Yeah. Sometimes I feel like that too. But Dad's not always like this. He goes on a binge, then straightens out for a few weeks. It's almost like he's the old man again," he said. "Why didn't you tell me he was in such bad shape?" she asked suddenly. Her brother shook his head saying, "He isn't. At least I know where he is. Bad shape is finding him passed out on the street in the middle of winter or in the hospital after being run over 'cause he stumbled into the road." She'd come to apologize for her behavior in The Red Top so long ago, and was hoping to be forgiven. Now, the brilliant plan to try rid herself of guilt was in jeopardy. Her father needed help more than she needed his forgiveness. "Every time we talked you never mentioned anything about...about this," said Sandra gesturing toward the bar. Her brother put his hands on her shoulders. "Every time? Sandy, other than your call last night we've had three conversations in six years," he said. Three times. How could that be? Was it true? Sandra thought hard and realized that it was. Her face flamed. "It's like I almost forget about the two of you. I'm sorry Don," said Sandra. Her brother bent his knees and looked in her eyes. "Why did you come?" he asked. Sandra felt her body sag but Don reached out to hold her up. Behind him, the dark shape of War Mountain stood like a silent giant. Sandra could feel his hands on her arms shake. When he was little, Don's hands would flutter when he was upset, the fingers moving like he was playing a piano. Sandra almost smiled at the memory. "Dad's way of coping with Mom's death was to drink himself into oblivion each night. Do you remember how he used to talk about all the good times the family supposedly had?" she said. It was Don's tum to blush. He'd always agreed with Dad whenever he told a story about events that never happened. But he had wanted to believe those stories. Sandra knew he didn't want to remember what really happened. "Anyway, I came home to ask for Dad's forgiveness. I remembered something I did when we were at The Red Top. Remember that place?" Her brother nodded. The Red Top was a diner the Roan family used to eat in every second week when their mother would get paid. Mom and Dad always ordered cheeseburgers and root beer floats for the kids and blue plate specials for themselves. "The Red Top. Man, I haven't thought about that place in years," said Don. "It's still the same. Jukeboxes are still there," she said. They smiled at one another remembering that a quarter could buy three songs. Mom and Dad picked one each but the kids always fought over which of them would choose the final song. Sandra continued, "I said something one night that changed him. I remember that after that night, Dad was different." Don took out a crumpled pack of American cigarettes, taking two out, lighting them and offering Sandra one. Although not a regular smoker, she shrugged and took it. "Mom and I made fun of him. Remember how proud he 44 45 Karen Olson Karen Olson always was about being Blackfoot. He wanted us to know so much but Mom, she never let him teach us anything. Remember?" It was silent as they both smoked for awhile. His voice tight, Don answered, "Yeah, I remember how she used to yell at him about being a goddamn Indian when he spoke the language." Suddenly the voice changed, "You know what? He used to teach me anyway. I mean, I had to promise never to say them in front of Mom. Of course, I've learned to speak it pretty good now," he said glancing over shyly. His smile broke the tension. Sandra returned it with a brief one of her own and began again. "Anyway, Dad was trying to talk to us about War Mountain. I remembered picking up her Coke bottle, pretending to take a drink then slurring some awful thing about being Dad falling off the mountain if he ever went up." Don took a final drag. The cigarette butt flew away in a tiny red arc when he flicked it. Sandra ground hers out. "You know something, I'm wiped. I can't talk about this anymore. Can we go?" she murmured. "Sure, sis. C'mon I'll drive. We'll take your little putter. I can get the pickup tomorrow," he motioned to the truck beside them. Sandra looked back at the bar. "Dad'll be okay?" she asked. "Don't worry about him. I'll take care of him," he answered. Her brother's calmness reassured her. Since they'd left the bar, she'd been afraid; afraid of being with her father. There was much to be said but Sandra felt ready now. "We've got a place on the base of the mountain. It's his Grandmother's old house," her brother said while getting in the car. Sandra put her head on his warm shoulder. The buildings on either side of the street were squat and forlorn, but their signs looked new. As they drove down the single paved road through town, every one of the four traffic lights turned green as the car approached. 46 47 Heather Harris Heather Harris Coyote and the Anthropologist Coyote was walking along When he came upon a man who obviously wasn't from here. The man said, "Ah, Coyote, I've been asking these Elders About the nature of Coyote. I am attempting to write the definitive work on the Coyote character." Coyote wasn't sure what "definitive" was but he said "Well, I should be able to help you with that. Coyote is the exponent of all human possibilities. He embodies the moral ramifications of our thought processes. And he actualizes the dichotomous relationship between man and nature." The anthropologist was impressed. He had a brilliant career-enhancing thought. "Coyote, how would you like to co-author a paper with me And come up to the university to present it at a scholarly conference?" The scholars droned on and on But Coyote didn't return. The anthropologist was getting worried When suddenly there was a commotion outside the room. The anthropologist went to see what was going on. He found the buffet table in ruins Coyote muzzled prints in every dish. He encountered a matronly female colleague With Coyote paw prints on the butt of her dress. He found a big pile of stinking, steaming Coyote shit in the middle of the floor And no Coyote to be seen. At last, the anthropologist understood the true nature of Coyote. Coyote thought about it for a minute "Yes," he said, "I will." Well, Coyote and the anthropologist went to the big city to the big university. They worked on that paper until it was perfected. The anthropologist was really excited and anxious, Looking forward to the awe and admiration of his colleagues. It was such a coup to actually have Coyote there to co-present the paper. The day of the conference came. The anthropologist had arranged to present last To increase the anticipation. Coyote listened to the first presenter. He fidgeted through the next one. He snoozed though the next one. And half way though the fourth one He whispered to the anthropologist He was going to he bathroom. 48 49 Heather Harris Heather Harris The Question of Cousins Everybody knows that all Indians are cousins. And it's surprising to find out how often that's really true. I'm sure if any two Indians who meet laid down enough genealogy they'd find out exactly how they are cousins or auntie and nephew or uncle and niece or some other kin relationship. I started thinking about this when I discovered the other day that one of my favourite students is related. Now Jaalen's Haida and I didn't think I had any Haida relatives of any sort. Well, as these things usually go, I was at his dad's place when he introduced me to his cousin whose mother was from Kispiox. It turns out that my student's cousin's mother was my ex-husband's cousin - a pretty close relationship in Indian terms. So now Jaalen can call me "Auntie" like half my other students do as well as nearly everybody in Kispiox under the age of thirty. A few days later a bunch of us were having a discussion about proper and improper marriages. In societies with clan systems like the Haida, Gitxsan and others, one must marry outside their own clan. This is called "clan exogamy" in anthropologist parlance. To marry within one's clan is called "gaats" (incest) by the Gitxsan. I don't know what the Haida call it other than bad form. We argued about what percentage ofHaida and Gitxsan have married appropriately. And we argued about what really constitutes a proper marriage because marriage within one's clan is not the only issue. Every young Aboriginal person, from the first day of the onset of puberty has heard a million times from their mother /aunite/grandmother, "You can't go out with him/her, he/she is your cousin." Young people dread hearing this. When a young Aboriginal person sees an attractive member of the opposite sex, they say a little prayer that goes something like this, "Thank you, Creator, for putting this wonderful person before me, and please, God, don't let them be my cousin." I figure at puberty all young people should be issued a gene~logy chart with all ineligible marriage partners crossed off with a big X. The young person in search of a partner could then mark off other no longer potential eligibles as they marry/move away/die/come out of the closet/etc. Pretty soon most would be down to those claiming only borderline sanity and those with more bad habits than good. Anyway, returning to the issue of who is and who is not an eligible marriage partner, the big question seems to be, if everyone of your generation is your cousin, then who can you marry? Well, the answer is, that you marry your cousin. What? . I've been told over and over and over, I can't marry my cousm. Well, that's true and not true. You can, in fact, marry your cousin as long as you marry the right kind of cousin. As a matter of fact, in some cultures, you are supposed to marry your cousin. Marriages between biologically close cousins (like first and second) don't seem to be encouraged but marriages with third, fifth and eighth cousins often are. How does that work? Well, for example, in societies that recognize kin matrilineally like the Haida and Gitxsan, all cousins on your mothers side, no matter how far removed, are considered brothers and sisters and are, therefore, needless to say, forbidden. However, because your mother and father had to be different clans to marry and you belong to your mother's clan, then mem~ers of y~~r father's clan are eligible marriage partners. Get 1t? Well, 1t s easy for us to understand and that's all that matters. While it may not be obvious to those from outside the community who don't know who belongs to what clan, for those inside the community, the person with a gaats marriage might as well have a scarlet "G" emblazed on their forehead. Now, to sum up, all Indians are cousins but we are not doomed to extinction because there are right cousins and wrong cousins. If you come from a matrilineal society your paternal cousins are right cousins and your maternal cousins are wrong 50 51 ' Heather Harris cousins. if you come from a patrilineal society it's the other way around. Oh, oh, if you come from a bilateral society and everybody is your real cousin, what happens then? I'll leave that for them to sort out. Reflection 52 Debby Keeper See See them in mirrors Figures on glass See their reflection Shadows they cast Islands of solitude Watch without sight Without understanding Ask for what's right A glimpse within And what did they see Eyes cast downward No longer to be ... Reveal the darkness Stand naked with shame Passed through tobacco Leave you their pain Offer a prayer Hope they are well Ask for the strength Despair not to dwell. 55 Debby Keeper Debby Keeper I want to feel. .. iam I want to feel. .. well yes, i am part indian i got the nose and a treaty card drink jar after jar of strong dark teas i like my bannock hard driving a big old car but i've never eaten beaver or jellied moose nose hmm ... the rain the sound of rolling thunder in the distance white hot lightning as it sears the ground, bums through the protective barriers to the flesh droplets and then torrents of cool, clean water against tired, unadorned skin wash away, take away those scars of time visions of horror and feelings of pain. well ... no i don't play bingo nevadas any type of scratch & win card no VLT's don't drink Pepsi or like KFC don't spend too much time drinking or hanging out in bars only dark in summer and got no relatives currently working for the government and i've never eaten dog (maybe on dog feast). 56 57 I Jack Forbes In the Dunes Jack Forbes The Dune was neither smooth nor soft not at all a rough rock-slide it was the top reaching to Heaven and on many legs I articulated across glittering jewels moving seeds beneath dune grass tall as Giant Redwoods and to climb straight up was for me an easy thing. My eye-lids were closed to mark the dunes and the little hollows, the pools and to see better the wind which in itself is not seen and it came to me. Wet it was mist my cheeks the smell was strong of sea-things as I lay back and drifted. And then ant-thoughts I had because it seemed the sand was no longer smooth I looked at the mountains of boulders round-ended here and jagged there and I could not lay upon these rocks as big as me. But imagine strong I was and I could lift one almost as big as me and move it my own piles making here and there. A presence I could feel wind-brought and my eyes opened to a grayness which moved in swirls and I was not anywhere that I had thought before. It was cool but it was not cold and there were no sounds the surf flattened to silence or had it left the ocean now around me was one where sky moved in undulating swells. Sitting down where I was I bathed myself with mist and being clean I scattered tobacco and laying back I began to float. 58 59 Jack Forbes Jack Forbes At a certain moment a bright light bathed me but then I was in grayness and then light again and whiteness all below not wanting to go higher I lay there on the top of foam piled up like snow and rounded into half-circles and wisps of shapes and it was all whiteness and blue above. and swim in the air and to swirl together in great masses rising high like a great white giant crashing about making thunder and lightning frightening creatures with the power given by the Creator. The pride I could feel not arrogance but pride in cloud-knowing-itself the parent of life below plants and animals the earth-mother waiting to be wettened. I played with the cloud there and it was wet and in motion and I knew that things are made in clouds that clouds listen and call in their own way and prayers they hear but powerful they are and playful and being strong but when they roll together with the wind in games one cannot being human play with them. Capricious they are not these clouds I learned prayers they hear but the games they play and with the wind they must be free they cannot be fast-chained free to be without routine. Not out of meanness do they pour themselves upon the Earth more than people want or less than people want not out of meanness but because of the winds and the power they must play out. Floating there my mind cloud-thoughts had and I could see and understand to roll and roll 60 61 Jack Forbes Jack Forbes And there I could feel the softness but the power beneath tense it was and growing and must be used layer upon layer of muscles of mist so soft each water drop and linked so hard roaring like a great buffalo bull across the skies yellow eyes flashing and the bang! Rough it is but soft in love like falling snow-flakes and water droplets touching Mother Earth and there I became like a snowflake ribbed as a basket patterned so and floating like a little white raft rocking downwards. And into Mother Earth I sank a spot of wetness I became and downward descending in her crevices porous she was as I went into softness all softness and darkness it was. And I could taste her there and her taste of earth became me and I became her and it was good. How long I lay within her I know not and then a pull I felt a gentle sucking pulled me so gently was I pulled and I knew a root was calling me and I went squeezing in as fluid moves. I became then a part of that plant moving upwards slowly upwards up the stalk of that plant green I was I could feel greenness for green I had become. Warmer I was Sun I could see green it was and then it was bright blue sky and upwards I was flying. Backward I looked and there that dune grass I saw the one Giant as a Redwood 62 63 Jack Forbes Jack Forbes when I was ant-size now small again tiny and disappearing into the shape of the dune and the dune becoming only a haze as higher I went to the Cloud-World again. I awakened on the dune with the morning sun of an unrecorded day and I offered tobacco and washing my body with its light, seeing that I possessed a long shadow I saw that I was not yet water only. So good I felt that water I wanted to be forever a cloud to belong to and an ocean a sea running rapids in a river skimming past trout and minnows. I knew then the words of a song: There is a sacred path through the Dunes It cannot be seen There is a sacred path through life it cannot be seen but good it feels to touch upon it happy it feels to know it is there. I felt then that waterdrops and clouds have such great knowledge for sooner or later a drop will pass through the inside of everything becoming truly a part of the earth even the rocks all living creatures the sky the sea. 64 65 Jack Forbes Jack Forbes Suspended Animation Suspended animation Frozen Icy hard Unmoving Tropical hurricanes screeching through veins thick with frost. Cool to people's touch Professing nothingCold steel frame giving deceptive form to molten matter. Marshmallow-like dropping downward to the soles of my feet Leaving dry empty-places echoing hollowly like a suit of armor standing in an empty castle hall. I fear my Hot inside Will seep out Leaving me Totally emptied. What I feel insideWhat I can do Two extremes, two minds, two hearts, pounding against each other Parallel lines must never meet - but Mine do. 66 Stranger within Which one is me? Will winter win and hold me rigid, or perhaps I'll be warm and soft Or maybe yet Searing torrents will spew forth in Sudden acts. The chemistry of My being has not been studied yet. Strange elements Undiscovered Coffined out of sight while still alive Suffocating, entombed, but not yet dead. Authentic life Demands That I unveil myself But not in some public place Classified and put in a tidy box of stereotyped assumptions By whisperers, hands over mouths, head turned aside to cover their foul breath. I will chip ice away with my own Chisel Peeling off the armor Upon my chosen ground Feeling the heat of unity and Lusty life as it should be Reflected in my own 67 Jack Forbes Jack Forbes Mirror. Subversion of established order Castle ramparts must not echo with the screams of hollow statues Suddenly hot with life swords upraised to Shout out sounds of truth. Suspended animationbut under the shroud of deceptive form Muscles flex and Juices flow And like a butterfly cocooned I prepare eagerly to appear. Teachers Bosses Many guardians Have tried so hard So mightily To tum me into soft stone of which they can carve and shape Approved images Pedestaled and on display amid Antique pots and urinals. Indians, though, are Hard to form Haven't you heard that yet? Blow torch hearts will bum the hands of those who try to moldBeware if I explode. To be a Free man Is my flame; I see its reflection behind my eyes And I, a warning giveIt grows stronger. 68 69 Jack Forbes Jack Forbes Getaway i I ! Half as much Tight crawl spaces Heading for openings Getaway I have to get away. Getaway In dark tunnels Running Twisting Slipping Watching for a light Stopping Listening for footsteps In dark holes Spaces between things Cracks Small places Hiding momentarily Sharp angles against my back No rest here Getaway Making my getaway. Getaway You tell me Why am I running Like a deer Leaping fences Behind bushes when a car goes by Whose behind those headlights Fierce eyes so red Panting Running Shirt soaking wet And dirty Crawling under cars Old houses Black widows don't scare me They tied my hands Tried to But I'm hard to tie down Confidently Feverishly Unknotting knots Slipping loose Slipping out No noose tonight Yelling and screaming They thought I ran up the stairs But I disappeared Into old foundations Of liberty On my belly In the dirt Crawling for a Getaway. Getaway In the darkness Of the night Cold, so cold They took my money No coat Running along side streets Back alleys All alone now This is the moment I trained for ' i ' I' I ! 70 71 Jack Forbes Jack Forbes All these years Studying Preparing for My getaway. Strange Like a man Ona Getaway. Getaway Over fences Hearing my heart My smell Telling dogs I'm running with them Dog-catchers I have no license To be here anymore No right To exist It has been decided Annulled By decree Nothinged Not supposed to be Making my Getaway. Getaway Miles away Coming out of holes In the ground Like a gopher coming up At night Surfacing to Look around Sniffing the air Smelling enemies Sliding back Out of sight Onmy Getaway. I I I l I l i Getaway Leaving friends behind Memories No time to ache yet Life is still the question No tears for those Never to be seen again Reputations lost Turning that last tunnel Not to be found Detested or mourned Who knows No time to think on one's Getaway. Getaway From arrogant fools To the hills or to Stay in the city A Black woman Gives me mean looks And a dime For a cup of coffee To keep me warm It was a cold night I'm sure I looked dirty 72 73 Jack Forbes Jack Forbes Getaway Down the Mind's millionth channel Passageways so dark Unexplored asylums Traps perhaps Stumbling over purposes long Forgotten Impulses charging In opposite directions Clotting Vision Blindness and brilliance Genius gone astray? What fools can make a clean Getaway. Getaway From one's own paranoia Are pursuer's real Really there Or just demons Of the dream Is this my own chase After myself Around in circles Strange neighbourhoods Factory brick walls And dead ends Eight-to-five Streets Offering no Getaway. Can't stay and be Murdered Annihilated Desecrated I'm not going to lay there and be raped Over And Over By masked creatures with uniforms of sodden sameness Leering down at me No more No more Find me Yes I'll find me a Getaway. Getaway Escape from sanity What is sane in a Place where everything Ends up in a Sewer Including one who is On his Getaway. Getaway If I can make the hills Hitching rides on Strange boulevards Watching for Dangers Behind billboard signs Hiding Getaway Damn I have to74 75 Jack Forbes Jack Forbes My own face With smiles And reassurance I'm okay friend Just on my Getaway. Just barely To go to the hills I know the hills I'll be there soon Onmy Getaway. Getaway Will you help or No, you have forgotten me Already My name, what is it, Already gone from your lips Erased just That fast How fickle but no, I wasn't real anyway Fictional character Invented For laughs And now, well now, He's on his Getaway. Getaway Gone away Yes he's gone away they'll say, Just ran off Forget him He didn't matter No loss you see He'll be erased, From your thoughts No troubling you With memories No reminders staring at you With big rat eyes Gnawing, no none of that On his Getaway. Getaway From a place where lies Are truth and truth Is all lies Don't you see Police strut Don't you see Ready to move Onme I had to go It was time Getaway Zig-Zag, here and there Sharp turns to deceive Laughter fools them Clowns do get away Lunatics too There are many ways to Getaway. Getaway Along trails my mind has 76 77 Jack Forbes Charles L. Mack Plotted out for just this Occasion, My friend don't worry about me Because you can be damn Sure I'll Getaway. Repo Cowboys Down the Highway Maniac Nothing ever goes quite as planned. We learn that the roads of life can take many twined and unsought turns. Planned destinies can be turned upside down and inside out. Our choices may be deemed with principle and thoughtful insight but the end product may be a corkscrew ofa ride. At times like these we realize that we are still in full search of infinite wisdom. I appreciate with the utmost gratitude the human experience bequest on me by a maniac cowboy. He was an outlaw, a con man, a boss, a perfect conversationalist, both good and evil; there was never a dull moment in the art of repossessing cars. We didn't go after the junk. Cadillacs, four-wheeled drive pickups, sports cars, RVs, sedans and a few semis; these were our meal tickets to a monthly paycheck. New car repossession was by far the elite of this unpopular trade. Mollimer Shagnafty was the short and stocky cowboy type. He had rigged up an old trailer house frame for use as a car trailer and beefed up his motor in his two-wheeled drive pickup. Mollimer was always a man on a mission and he approached every project with such focus and seriousness. It was the spring of 1997 and Mollimer, a trailer court neighbour, came to me with an offer that was hard to refuse. The stage was set for change. Working with the Rosebud Sioux Tribe was getting to be a complete burnout and the jagged cuts from tribal politics demoralized my stance on staying strong in the face of outright stupidity. The implements of defense I dropped and the next course of action I felt was close at hand; there had to be a way out. It was through neighbourly talk that Mollimer learned of my yearning to break from the depths of tribal employment and government. 78 79 Charles L. Mack Charles L. Mack Mollimer, a white man himself, was cleaning up on a small car repossession contract with a car dealership out of Rapid City, SD. and informed me of his upcoming expansion and the need for an employee. Mollimer was a cowboy with many connections and he connected on a gold mine. Mollimer was that type, as he would listen to people while visiting and ask questions and get information. His last job with the car dealership in Rapid City connected him with an automobile financing company out of Florida. These people in Florida did the actual financing of contracts at major dealerships across the country. Once Mollimer was in contact with these corporate types, things started to roll. With a repossessed BMW sports car we headed to Oklahoma to visit with the heads of one of the financing company's branch office. Mollimer was smooth and surprised them by taking them out for dinner and that same night he bedded down one of the finance company employees. He even went out of his way and sent the ailing president of the company roses and Black Hills gold while she was in the hospital. Tribal employment soon ended for me and I enrolled into the University of Car Repossession. Mollimer agreed to pay me every week the same salary as my last job. Soon, one of Mollimers' small trailer house rooms was converted into a high tech office. There was a fax machine, fancy new phone, a word processor, file cabinet, desk and chairs, and last but not least, posters of deer and naked women. One of his first contracts came with a $30,000 check and Mollimer cashed it and brought it over to show me. There we stood by his pickup and in a large envelope were stuffed $30,000 in frog hides. This financing company looked into Mollimer's past work around the state and learned of his high success and upon so sent the money up front. Mollimer waved the cash in my face and informed me that we had our work cut out for us. The average cost of repossessing a car was about $5,000. One of our first jobs called for the repossession of six cars. We brought these cars in from all over the Mid-west and upon doing so, there were more contracts and big, fat money. We just kept hitting the highway, with bags of clothes and cash. Soon Mollimer bought a brand-new 1997 Dodge Duel Wheel pickup and a matching two car trailer. How I remember him paying for these items in total, well exceeding $45,000. And if that wasn't enough there were all the accessories that could be added. Mollimer paid cash for chrome grill guards, windshield visor, top of the line pin striping, railing, fog lights, CD player and speakers and a bed liner. Every item purchased for his pickup was the best of quality and money was no object. Along with a decent vehicle to work out of, there was the fast food to consume in the daytime and the finest cuisine laid out in many an evening, in fine restaurants. Mollimer spared no expense on the fine dining, as he let me order anything that !he establishments could offer. There were the western clothmg stores that he loved so much and the sky was the limit for purchased fashion. Mollimer even dressed me in western attire and upon doing so I learned to appreciate such clothing. Through it all I refused to wear a cowboy hat; oh how Mollimer tried converting me to western. Anything medical he would pay for and that included an eye test at a shopping mall. These medical checkups seemed strange because in the past, as my whole life had been spent, I would always be sitting in an Indian Health Service facility waiting for the doctor. Through this quest of investigation and learning to read body language, we got car after car and took them to the nearest big town auto auction. And from the beginning, Mollimer was a man with a medical problem, sadly he had diabetes. He read up on the disease and learned every aspect he could about it. So, in free time we walked and exercised and I watched Mollimer become more and more of a vegetarian. He loved to eat the cow but learned to divert to other types of meat, including fish. I became a repo man, cowboy type and also a highway 80 81 Charles L. Mack Charles L. Mack nurse. Day after day his finger had to be pricked and blood tested with a portable blood sugar unit. Then there were the syringes and small bottles of insulin. Sometimes his vision would blur on him and I had to take the wheel. Enter the bar scene and gloom and doom of success. Mollimer was all cowboy and rightfully so. He came from a strong family background of hats, boots and bullshit. The western bars and dance clubs became his rest and relaxation, if you want to call it that. There wasn't much rest and relaxation experienced in these cowboy bars. Whiskey nights with twangtwang music and there I sat soberly on a bar stool watching my boss cowboy up. There were the Montana bars, New Mexico saloons and the Oklahoma western clubs. Of all the bars I sat in, Oklahoma bars by far had some of the most beautiful women in the world. All in all there I sat, a non-drinker, in an environment full of smoke, booze, wild rednecks and thousands of women. At times I felt like Ghandi, doing my best to control the lust. Many a night was spent with Mollimer and his hand picked woman of the night in a motel room. I would lay there alone in one bed, in total darkness and the stench of booze and crotches and sounds of sexual activity came from the other bed. Mollimer didn't care whom he brought to his room and I just lay there in my bed and tried to ignore it all. He always laughed about it the next morning, then he would get crabby about the days work ahead. The roads got longer and the nights deepened. Mollimer became dependent on drugs to stay awake and how I remember how he changed while under the influence. In his comatose state of mind he felt alone and at times would try to entice me to join his spaced out world. It was during these tripped-out tours he would take that Mollimer would open up his world to me; a somewhat troubled one at that. The darkened road trips made my mind feel like a suspended brain, as he would tell me his life stories. Staring into the darkness with an endless yellow line moving under the pickup and listening to his tribulations. A product of bitch baby syndrome and the pain of not knowing his real father. The family torment he carried, as he never got along with his mother very well. He betrayed his grandparents a time or two. He was divorced and admitted to being a womanizer. Once while we went deer hunting on his grandparents' land, he took me to a small hill. He drove to the base of the hill and we got out and walked to the top. There was a weathered out hole at the peak. Mollimer stared at the hole with little emotion and then explained its presence. It was his own hand dug grave and he explained how he was going to rig up a contraption that would automatically bury him once he blew his head off with a .270 deer rifle. But, that was over five years ago. He informed me and since he has come to grips with himself. I stared at the crater and was not shocked because I felt he was lunatic fringe. We then commenced to jump back into his pickup and finished up the day's hunting. Many a time Mollimer, court judges and myself would sit in chambers and discuss car financing. It was strange because we would take some of our cases to court and would win every time. When people haven't made a car payment in over a year, it becomes quite obvious that all their bullshitting doesn't hold up well in court. Afterwards some Judges would sometimes ask us for help in getting a good car deal somewhere. Mollimer also bedded down a clerk of courts for awhile. After awhile I could tell whom he would have in the sack that night. How I recall the countless calls on his cell phone that were from his various female contacts. Mollimer did have his little sparks of nobleness and this was cast down on him when we went to repossess a car from an older couple. The elderly man was recovering from cancer treatment and the wife kept care of him. The old couple lived in the country and while interviewing them it was obvious that there was hardship. I can still see Mollimer coming out of their 82 83 Charles L. Mack Charles L. Mack house, standing in their yard and gazing across the neighbouring cornfield. Mollimer in a faint voice looked at me and told me that we were going to let this one go. He made the connotation of having some morals. He then grabbed the brim of his cowboy hat and went through the motion of straightening it out and then he told me that we were leaving. We never did go back to that place. The repossession of cars got old after about five months and it was tiring for me. Mollimer had a new girlfriend and every time they went out, he thought I had to go. Things weren't the same anymore. Bars, parties, long nights and longer days. Work was suffering and Mollimer was in some type of non-describable love. I didn't mind him splurging on his wench, but when it cut into my salary, it became a problem. The suffering of work started to irritate my cowboy boss and he would take out his hangover frustrations on me. That type of ridicule soon turned to torture and there had to be a way out. I didn't argue with the man very much. This cowboy was stout. He had a temper and was known to have hit a man in the head and knock him out with just one punch. He respected me somewhat and I don't think he would have tried this, but I took no chances. Upon knowing my wish to leave this employment, Mollimer became quiet. He confessed that he wasn't perfect and tried to keep me on as an employee, but he also knew I was leaving regardless of what he could say or do. It wasn't a surprise to find out that my last paycheck had a stop payment issued. Strange though it seems I remained calm and collected about the situation. It was his style and even though I relied on this last pay installment, it did not matter anymore. I was free from the bar atmosphere, the long nights and longer days, the loose women, car lot con men, screwy judges and pricking fingers for blood. No more hangover attitude from the boss or the unsightly presence of his ape-faced girlfriend and her hyena laugh. Emancipation was sweet and besides I didn't do much during my last week of employment. Mollimer always told me that a person has to live on the edge once in awhile. I always believed that he went over the edge. Still there is an enchantment to it all. There were some aspects of freedom experienced and a human spirit opened up to me, his. Mollimer took each day as it came without worrying about the outcome of what he did. He was western and the cowboy metaphor was almost a circus in comparison. He told me his deepest, darkest and hideous secrets. He trusted me like a true friend but in the end, he must of thought that he betrayed me. Sometimes I pull out the worn and frayed $1,000 bad check and I am reminded of the wild ride of being a repo cowboy. Then I ponder his return home and the little hill that waits for him. 84 85 Sandra A. Olsen Candy Zazulak Frogman Across Many Miles Frog man Evolving man In white and black I see you Not in balance Body is white pure motion Harmony of movement But from neck up is black Busy black full of painful blame Across many miles Across sacred land Across many generations Who live each day Breathing litter of many miles in many plants. What will happen To Mother Earth who's covered in endless litter? Time passes us in Sacred existence Existence of an ending era. Frog man Warrior man Your redhot anger Is frozen in memory What good is freedom of Expression If it hurts Yes there has been suffering Yes Injustice Genocide Invasion Expropriation Oppression Extermination Others have done this Must you add to the pain Frog man Traditional man Life has made you the way you are Even to those dark smoldering churning seas that you call eyes Frog man Good man Peace is elusive The truth is to love Humanity Corrupt man will never find Peace Those who love may find the path Where hope suddenly summersaults into existence Possibilities unfold The Creator smiles All is in balance For now 86 Across many miles Across sacred land Across many generations Who live on Suffering land. crying for help. Crying, "Please let me breathe! Please don't let me scream in endless pain, Please stop Raping me of Natural existence." Time passes us in Remembrance to fulfill Every moment we exist. 87 Sandra A. Olsen Sandra A. Olsen Across many miles Across sacred land Across many generations Who live in a New existence. Strength and courage To stop endless pain Of natural existence. To stop the screaming of Miles and miles We covered. Generations of children Who breathe and suffer litter in the air. Generations of ancestors pleading with our Creator to stop This endless litter. Across many miles Across sacred land Across many generations Of yet to come Across many Miles. Across many miles Across sacred land Across many generations Who live each day In suffering of sacred land. As a Nation We should build strength To stop suffering Of millions Across millions of miles On sacred land. Together we'll succeed In saving Mother Earth. Across many miles Across sacred land Across many generations Who'll remember strength and courage we have 88 89 Connie Crop Eared Wolf Theresa G. Norris My Friend Tamra Maria She came into my life like a winter snowstorm Like the few visible flakes that melt As they touch the earth As colleagues, we touched Then like a full blown prairie blizzard Our friendship became strong A long time ago in a very large cold country there lived a very small girl. The small girl did not live alone; she lived in a large family with many many brothers and sisters including a mother and a father. The small girl was not too poor but not too rich either. Her favorite food was toast soaked in milk sprinkled with plenty of sugar. Every morning she woke up out of a deep sleep and wished that she could sleep longer knowing that the moment would come when she had to put her little feet out from under the warm cozy blankets onto the icy frozen floor of her room. Many times she could have sworn she felt frost nipping at her heels and toes. She hated those little teeth. The small girl also had a name, her name was Maria. Maria lived from day to day as everyone does, she did not have an unusual life. At least not unusual in the eyes of the world nor in the eyes of her many brothers and sisters or her mother and father. For all intents and purposes Maria was just another ordinary girl with a taste for sugar. She never got into trouble, she knew how to spell and learned to count. Though a faint realization was beginning to grow in her thoughts and perhaps Maria did have a problem, a problem even she did not notice at first. One day she noticed her busy family bustling about her. She noticed them all rushing about speaking loudly amongst each other. She noticed that not one person in her family noticed her. Gradually, she noticed that she was invisible. At first there was no reason for her to suspect that she was different from the other members of her family. Eventually the signs of her transparency became clear to her. At first the signals were faint and soon enough the truth was revealed to her. Often she would hear her mother's worried voice wondering where all of that sugar was disappearing to and secondly when she heard her brothers complaining that there was no toast left in the house, and where did it go? And then when she decided to move out of her house to under her bed, not a single person Tamra, the Napiaakii with the Indian heart Pow-wow dancer Your travels are many Your path unique You came into my life like a prairie snow storm Calming the restlessness, that entered my home Tamra, the Napiaakii with the Indian Heart Your spirit was captured and brought to the prairies Like the chinook, Alvin Strong wind from the west, melting your heart Exposing the fertile soil of your personality You embraced and lived the life of a true Blood woman My friend Tamra Scholar, speaker of truth Teacher, mentor to the young You see the potential of young Blood children Expanding their ideals, encouraging their growth Planter of wisdom in fertile minds Tamra, winter blizzard Storm from the east You came into my life Gentle, pow-wow dancer You enriched my life, with your laughter You warmed my heart with your friendship 90 91 Theresa G. Norris Theresa G. Norris noticed. To Maria this was enough proof to confirm her suspicion. She moved about the house like a fading shadow. Counting the number of times people did not notice her, reciting the letters of their names. Maria took to wearing an emerald green chiffon dress; she thought the translucent hue was flattering to her invisibility. She also found an old pair of tap dancing shoes with hard silver crests attached with tiny nails to the bottoms of the heels and toes. The shoes were faded black leather but she loved the black satin ribbons that secured them to her little feet. When she marched through the rooms of the large family home the silver crests of the shoes made small tapping sounds like elves hammering leaves of gold. She wondered why nobody ever complained. She wondered if invisible girls in tap dancing shoes could be heard. She wondered if sounds have shadows. One day as Maria was clicking through her house in and out of every room she noticed an open door in the kitchen, a door that led to the garden. She peered out of the door and noticed the sun was shining very brightly, she noticed that far away at the very back of the garden there stood a tree, a very beautiful tree. A tree with bright green leaves almost as green as her dress. The tree was sprinkled with shiny red cherries. The cherries reminded her of millions of ruby earrings tugging at the green ears of the tree. Without hesitation Maria whisked herself out of the back door and down a path that brought her to the tree, she ran so quickly that her little shoes forgot to make a sound. So enticing was the tree. Out of breath and slightly awed by her discovery all she could do was bend her neck back and gaze up at the tree. Home she thought, I have found myself a new home, not that she had been looking for a new home of course but such was her wonderment. Maria noticed a ladder leaning on the trunk of the tree, a convenient coincidence for just as quickly as Maria scurried down the path to reach the tree she hopped onto the ladder and up into it's heart. Mercifully the tree accommodated her shiny slippery shoes by its strong level branches and many stairs like knots. Under a canopy of leaves Maria saw the maze like structure of branches and she smelled the soft sweet scent of ripe cherries. The sun shone through openings where gnarled branches separated, Maria realized that she was in the center chamber of the tree. It had never occurred to her before that behind all of those leaves that trees could probably be hollow. Absorbing the scene before her with its scent and light Maria thought perhaps she should rest her little body in one of the elbows of a branch, and possibly tuck her little head on a clump ofleaves. Maria exhausted from all of her new impressions, fell asleep. Maria dreamed about a chamber, a living room in a tree. She dreamed that she slipped out of her shoes and hung them by their black ribbons on a branch. She dreamed that a very large very shiny, black crow, almost too slippery to look at kept sliding in and out of her sleepy vision as he laid a soft blanket over her shoulders. She dreamed of the delicious aroma of cherry pie baking happily. In the distant comers of her sleep she heard the sound of tinkling teacups as they were set on a table. Her sleeping tongue regressed in her mouth at the prospect of drinking steaming tea. Opening her eyes feeling refreshed, Maria drank in the scene around her. Before her eyes sat a large glistening black crow. The crow was sitting at a table set with steaming cups of tea and two large slices of bubbling cherry pie. The crow's feathers shone so brightly that Maria could almost see her own reflection in his wings. She was visible in those wings and it made her feel glad. Her image fluttered gently toward her as he extended a wing to invite her to his table. Smiling timidly Maria sat opposite the crow wishing that he might very kindly put three teaspoons of sugar in her tea and perhaps an extra four on top of her cherry pie, secretly she would have preferred toast. "Do not worry," cawed the crow, interrupting her thoughts. 92 93 Theresa G. Norris Theresa G. Norris "I have filled each cherry with sugar before I put it in the oven and the tea is made from their juice. Feel free to add a small amount of milk, and please eat quickly young lady for my name is Ordy and we have a job to do." "My name is Maria," said Maria as she obediently set about eating her lunch. Absorbed by the liqueur that was her lunch, the cherry pie sang as it tickled the inside of her mouth and the tea serenaded her making her feel warm and soft. Opening her mouth to join the chorus she noticed that Ordy was no longer sitting at the table. She noticed that he was hunched over an old sewing machine. Maria noticed that all around Ordy there lay clouds of billowing silk. Silk of every colour she could possibly imagine. Maria imagined taking a little bite out of every single colour. Several shades of pink, green blue and red. Choral green turquoise and ochre. There were even colours that Maria did not know the names of. Maria pushed her chair back and slowly strolled over to where Ordy was crouched. "Pardon me Mr. Ordy," peeped Maria, as she tested her voice, "But may I please ask you Sir what task you are busy with?" "Hmmm," cawed Ordy. "Hmmm. I am busy making a rainbow and by the looks of it there will be a sun shower early this evening. I am very happy that you are here; I am pleased that you might help me with my task. The afternoon is growing old," cawed Ordy "and we must race with time." Maria steadied herself and found her reflection in his wing just to be sure he was speaking to her. Feeling confident and visible Maria cleared her throat and bravely replied that she would be happy to assist but she simply had no skills that she could think of to help him. At that moment she glanced shyly at his face to see if he heard her, as she was not yet used to being heard. Ordy smiled and asked Maria if she had fingers? To which she said, "Yes I have ten fingers, ten to be exact." Behind her back she counted them just to make sure. Ordy asked her if she could use those fingers to grasp the coloured silk? Maria said, "Yes if it was not too heavy". "Fine," replied Ordy and then in a somber caw peering directly into her eyes he asked her if she could fly? "Yes," replied Maria cautiously, "because I fit in the reflection of your wings." "Hmmm," said Ordy, "then your task will be to help me lift the rainbow high into the sky. High above the clouds. Together we will stretch it over the valley. The sun's rays will embrace it and shine through it and every living person and beast shall behold it." "It is time now," said Ordy, "the hour to place the rainbow up into the heavens has come. I smell that soon the rain will end. Come Maria, come, the sky is waiting!" Maria picked up her shoes by their satin ribbons and Ordy snatched his cowboy hat from a peg. He rolled the rainbow into a tight ball and led Maria through and up corridors of branches and stairs. At a certain moment Ordy reached above his head and unhooked a small brass latch. Miraculously he pushed open a square door and they climbed out of his home. Blinking at the glare of daylight Maria realized that she was standing at the very top of the cherry tree. Maria barely had time to tie her shoes when she noticed that Ordy was extending a comer of the rainbow toward her. She stood up to take hold of the rainbow and when she touched the fabric with her fingers she was so startled by the texture that she almost lost her balance on the top of the cherry tree. For the rainbow was not made of silk it was not made of anything that she could recognize. It was warm but soft, it was lighter than a feather and if she held it too tight her fingers would sink through it's fabric. On the other hand if she did not grasp tight enough the rainbow would slip through her fingers like grains of sand or perhaps like crystals of sugar. "This is like waking in a dream!" exclaimed Maria in a voice that she did not know she had. Ordy spread his wings to their fullest breadth and Maria found her reflection in the glossy 94 95 Brent Peacock-Cohen Theresa G. Norris reflection of Ordy's feathers. Extending first her right arm and then her left, Ordy swept her up into the sky, Maria's breath feared the flight and stayed atop the tree becoming a small breeze tickling the leaves of the cherry tree. At each instant Maria's reflection grew in the fine black feathers. Maria became Ordy's heart, a heart outlined by the body of a crow. Maria looked down from the sky as the distance between her Ordy and the earth grew, she could see the cherry tree growing smaller, not too far from the cherry tree stood her family home and it too grew in reverse to the size of a pin head just a speck hardly a memory. The rainbow unfurled as Maria and Ordy crossed over the horizon. Together they flew for thousands of years, years that were only seconds long and years that took forever. Maria became Ordy and Ordy reassured her with joy. The rainbow refreshed their thirst and whenever she became hungry Maria took just a small bite out of their colours. "One day," said Maria, "we may have to go home to create another rainbow." She enjoyed being visible. Frustration Standing in a puddle Which is endless "There are Indian people on the shore" Says the Raven But I see nothing Trudging in a desert Which is endless "There is an Indian village on the edge" Says the Coyote But I see nothing Sitting in a longhouse The longtables filled with Indians the room is silent nothing is said, not a peep Until the food is late An Indian in an office listening to other people Doing for other people Writing for other people While their Nation sits one short Who says the tipi is not as good as the wheel? 96 97 William George William George Squamish Floods The ink spills, the pen bleeds, and in a good way, I shall share the teachings. I bleed words barnacle wounds to pray ancient blood tears ocean flow mountain stream The Squamish people have swi-OME-tun (Indian doctors), qua-Tsay-its (Sorcerers), and us-YOH (Prophets). Swi-OME-tun are the ones who heal the people, hearts and minds made strong. (Indian Doctors, oh you must mean that Native rap group) The qua-Tsay-its has power in medicine chants and words and songs, knows hidden ways to use Indian paints. (Sorcerer, he is that WWF wrestler enit?) The us-YOH sees the future and predicts what will happen to a person. (like the psychic hotline) life-lines is river surgmg mountain stream cedar canoes blood flows soil to water through amber shores 98 wolf dream carved bedded rock breaks language breath A long time ago there was a great flood. Many people died. The Squamish people in the 21st century are forgetting that their ancestors lived and died in the great flood. Yes, from the slopes of Whistler Mountain to the streets of Vancouver and North Vancouver, Squamish people are forgetting to respect each other, and forgetting the teachings of the old ones. red mountain bursts terrain deep valley breaks through rock and soil tears searching rain drops and moves the language ocean bloodied stone cuts pushes nver claws earth surgmg breath And in their forgetting, they dismiss the coming of a new prophet. In the 21st century, the old ones say "listen to the one who wield the pen." As the swi-OME-tun transformed by the western society medicine, As the qua-Tsay-its transformed by technology, As the us-YOH and the stories about prophecies become transformed into fairy tales, the Squamish people need to remember to respect. 99 William George William George The people stop helping each other and stop respecting the words of the old ones. Spawning stops, salmon die. Growing stops, berries and plants die. The Poet like the us-YOH before him tells and re-tells the story of the great flood. He says that this disaster will happen again if they don't change. And the rain ... The rain this time pounds down on the people, filling the cities and streets. 21st century rains a great flood. This time there are no qua-Tsay-its to try to stop this deluge. bedded rock generations blood-line nurtures flesh and bone soil deep pushes memory After this flood, the landscape and the people's mindset are transformed so much that things do not go back to the way they were. 100 They Rose And So Shall I they rose from the mountains rose from the volcanic lava rose from the oceans rose from the marshes and swamps and they were firm in their resolve to mask dance in accordance with the first lessons I stand here in the city and the pull of contemporary society and traditional teachings are massive weights applied to the foundation of who I am blood and tears are boulders break me through thick lines of fog and mist I shall rise then through the asphalt through the sewer the smog the ozone and when I gain my bearings I will live - move here with the first dream 101 Mari.Jo Moore Mari.Jo Moore Atop Polacca on First Mesa Some things are hidden in the immensity of the Arizona desert. Others are forever reappearing. As I walk across the burning sands, I feel traces of lightning that wove itself into this mesa hundreds of celebrations ago. Traces that scratch open my vision in preparation for a remarkable mystery. The hot wind sprays dust in my face, spits into my heart prayers floating in the ether for eons, and I intuitively know I will never be the same. Today, spirits will materialize in answer to ritualistic prayers. Spirits will sing, drum and dance. The Katsinam are commg. It is Summer Solstice, 1998. I am a visitor on First Mesa on the Hopi Reservation, invited by the Sinquah family to observe an age-old ceremony closed to non-Indians. Consisting of approximately 4000 square-miles of arid plateaus and desert, Hopi land encompasses various dwellings which cling to the rocky cliffs of First, Second, and Third Mesas. First Mesa, barren of trees, juts out over the village of Polacca. The sky is close, turquoise, and beautiful. The mesa is colored only by sand; there is not one blade of green grass. Even the houses are sand-coloured. "Sometimes, you focus on the black highway just to ease your eyes," Dale Sinquah tells me as we drive up the winding mountain road. The parched earth of the desert floor is cracked open in places, showing even more dryness beneath. Yet looking down from the six-hundred-foot high mesa, I see tiny brown patches that are fields of blue com. To my eyes, used to acres of lush green cornfields growing in a rainy Southeastern climate, seeing com grow in this parched desert is truly a miracle. The industrious and spiritual Hopi have managed to survive in the dry, barren desert for thousands of years. Although modem conveniences have made their way into the villages, 102 Hopi traditions have survived. The Hopi language is still spoken fluently, baskets are still woven from yucca plants, and celebratory traditions still have precedence. Katsinam - spirit beings who represent all aspects of universal life and live on the snow-capped San Francisco Mountains in the Cochina Forest still come in colorful ceremony to pray for rain and abundance as they sing not just for the survival of the Hopi but for the entire world. Traces of lightning in the sand burning feet, scratching eyes wind spraying dust, spitting awareness prayers bringing in respected spirits young men on flat rooftops, standing women with colorful shawls, sitting children, dark and beautiful, watching rose embroidered on loincloth of dancing Katsina clouds, a lizard, the sun Katsinam dancing dancing Katsinam embodying the world the entire lost, lonely world somewhere, far away from this plaza, children are crying women are hurting, men are dying all will eventually feel the prayers of dancing Katsinam Katsinam dancing their guttural singing tearing at my throat splitting open my soul taking me to a place so deep inside the sky I may never go there again mesmerized by movements, dreamed awake by colors I fall deeper and deeper inside myself than I have ever dared visit before Young men, serious and observant, line the flat tops of the ancient stone houses. Women, reverent in their colourful shawls, sit in rows of chairs on the plaza. Children, with dark, beautiful faces, wait with ancestral anticipation for the sine qua non. 103 1 I MarUoMoore MarUoMoore A slow, steady drumbeat begins to reverberate inside my heart as the plaza becomes filled with drumming, movement and color. The Katsinam are here. Singing and dancing. This dance, like all American Indian dance, is a form of praise; a way to experience interconnectedness through motion. The art of dancing was part of life for American Indians before the conception of art ever existed. American Indian dances are beautiful metaphors for celebrating life to the fullest. Music and dance are representatives of the full range of life for American Indians. They are integral fuels that have always fed the fires of honor and traditions. Dance is a necessary spiritual action requiring dedication and a devout sense of reverence. To dance is to pray, to pray is to heal, to heal is to give, to give is to live, to live is to dance. Katsinam dancing dancing Katsinam are lined inside of me celebrating not explaining celebrating the mysteries of all interconnectedness knowing not hoping knowing all the people need their prayers small chosen rocks rattling inside gourds bringing visions of cool life-giving rains my skin erupting letting go cold chills quickly vanishing in the hot, dry desert Am I seeing what I am seeing? dancing Katsinam Katsinam dancing circle never closing eagle feathers dripping from turquoise mouths lush green juniper surrounding singing throats movements... gourd rattles raise upward meeting lowered faces heads turning left bows and arrows lowered heads following two right steps in one place now one left now turn and repeat singing always singing Symbolism is more than just imagined reality to American Indians. Symbols represent spiritual reality where thought and 104 feeling, storyteller and story, spirit and creation, are considered the same. One need only watch a true artisan at work carving a ceremonial pipe from stone to see how ancestral spirits are present during creation. And there is no doubt evoked ancestral spirits are here within this plaza today, manifested in in these otherworldly colorful beings. Watching the Katsinam dance, my senses heighten as cultural chants mix with swishing rain sounds falling from gourd rattles and fill the air. Haunting, mystical sounds transport my spirit to the place inside myself where deep wounds lie hidden, and I ache for a simpler existence. The drum - its round form representing the shape of the sacred universe - emits a strong, steady heartbeat that entrances my mind and I become one with all. Agile and full of purpose, the sacred artistic dance chills my soul. I am alive. I sit in awe of this celebratory vision and poetry births itself inside my spirit. Poetry has been the medium of mystics, prophets, and healers for thousands of years. For me, poetry is proof of the mystery living inside me; it is reality scratching at the surface of my soul; it is my true connection to the whole. Poetry is ceremony woven from the voices of the old ones, intuition, dreams and visions. The poems that find me are gifts from Spirit through me to others. In the belief system of American Indians, this quintessential Spirit is known by many names and has many voices. These voices often penetrate our spoiled, scarred psyches and force thoughts to materialize, expressing themselves in creative forms: song, dance, music, art, literature. These creations provide us with a sense of interconnection, a sense of being. They give us proof of what we all seem to crave the most: love and hope. Has love, like the words "sacred," "holy," and "respect" become meaningless from overuse? And what about the word hope? What is hope? Why do we need hope? What have we forgotten? With what have we lost touch? I firmly believe most 105 l MarUoMoore MarUoMoore people have lost touch with the land, thus they have lost touch with themselves. To American Indians, ceremony is a necessary act to obtain or regain balance with the earth. It is the highest form of giving back to the earth so that she can replenish her supply for humankind. The purpose of ceremony is to integrate: to unite one with all of humankind and creation as well as the realm of the ancestors. Consciousness is raised and the idea of individuality shed. Ceremony brings into balance all there is. Though each ceremony has its own special purpose which varies from nation to nation, all ceremony provides deep illumination and the realization that there is no separation from anything or anyone. Poetry, song, art, music, and dance can help us understand this relationship, and often provides spiritual healing. Only in isolation can spiritual sickness exist, therefore, for one to heal, one must recognize a oneness with the universe. The Cherokee story "How The Plants Gave Us Medicine" tells of a time when humans lived peacefully with the animals, were in total communication with them, and always asked the permission of the animal for its life before taking it. But when the people began to lose respect for the animals and began hunting for sport, they needlessly killed animals and destroyed the balance of the forests. Because the people forgot the importance of ceremony, the animals began to inflict diseases and infirmities upon them. The plant world, in sympathy for the people, gave their medicines as cures for the diseases. Now, this plant world is being destroyed. Since the beginning of the nineteenth century, medical science has turned its back on nature. The aspect of Spirit participating in one's healing is quickly pushed aside in favor of synthetic drugs and quick-fix therapies. The Hopi call this Koyaanisqatsi, "Life out of balance; crazy life; life disintegrating; a state of life that calls for another way of living." Is life out of balance? How else can one explain the continuing destruction of the world's original forests? And the poisoning of waters, the widening hole in the ozone, the thousands of dollars spent on the excavating of bones to be examined while the problems of modem-day people continue to be ignored? What about individual lives? Are they out of balance? What about the continuing racist hate crimes, the bitter stings of discrimination and stereotyping? The rising number of suicides every year (especially among youth), the ever-present damage caused by alcoholism and drug abuse, children being born addicted and with Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, and on and on? How have we lost this important contact with our inner selves? How have we lost our connecting responsibility to each other, to the land? What have we put in the place of ceremony? Ceremony is often shunned in favor of organized society and religion, in favor of short-cuts to spirituality, in favor of ignoring one's inner call by listening to the outer callings demanding more and more material gain. Ceremony is passed over in favor of defining instead of celebrating one's existence. In other words, we are cut off from our inner selves, from the place where we can experience spiritual connection with all there is. Shunning ceremony can cause all of life to become out of balance. But today, atop Polacca on First Mesa, white clouds are beginning to loom in the turquoise sky, adding their celestial contribution to the celebration of the Great Mystery. And the Katsinam, poetry in motion surrounded by an aura of ceremonial certainty, dance on, singing and praying. Praying for balance to be restored to all. 106 107 reminding the arid earth roots of ancestral corn are resting in its ancient belly corn meal yellowed on chests corn meal leaving women's hands landing on the sacredness the blessed ageless ceremonial sacredness of dancing Katsinam Katsinam dancing Mari.Jo Moore Mari.Jo Moore turtle shells speaking jingling bells answering fox tails swinging head Katsinam directing white-haired priest circling all the people silent I believe my heart explodes I believe my spirit takes flight I believe my mind is touched as never before and maybe as never again Mudhead Katsina drumming stopping changing positions drumming dancing turning singing praying moaning ho 'oooooteeeee ho 'te ho 'te Katsinam dancing, dancing Katsinam dancing for all the people dancing for all the world stopping leaving a changed silence returning to the dark kiva to pray and prepare to dance again. The Hopi, like all American Indians, are not without factional problems. As their ancestors in the emergence stories, modem-day Hopi are still in disagreement concerning maintaining traditional beliefs or embracing progressiveness which includes acceptance of non-Hopi ways. But today, ancestral spirits are here, dancing, singing and praying. There is the collective acceptance of tradition. I, like all the observers, am silent. Pausing in the space between knowledge and understanding. The space between wounding and healing. The space between hope and acceptance. I hear the haunting, guttural prayer-song and the accompanying sound of the slow mesmerizing drum beat. The Katsinam dance two right steps in one place, one left, tum, then repeat. These synchronized movements remind me that all is really one. That we are really a part of the all. This is truly aceremonial celebration, truly a prayer in motion. The human element is almost totally disregarded as the entire physical universe is recognized, revered, and celebrated. There is no attempt at explaining the universe, only at celebrating its existence. There is no cathedral, church, or temple isolating the Creator, only natural surroundings. There is no collection plate, the people give their respect and full attention. There is no preacher ranting and raving about heaven or hell, no laying on of hands, no manipulation by guilt, no Sunday-best clothing. No Tarot card readings, no channeling of the Archangel Michael. No one seeking an Indian name, performing a vision quest, or taking peyote. There is no competitive dancing, no war whoops, no clapping. Only a changed silence as the Katsinam finish their dance and head back to the darkness of the kiva, to pray and prepare to dance again. Rainer Maria Rilke wrote, "teaching means: to ask of each person what he feels closest to in silence." As a writer, I am a teacher. And as a teacher, I am continually learning. Witnessing the metaphorical beauty of the Katsinam returning to the source of creation has deepened my silence. As I drive across the changing desert to Phoenix to catch a flight back to North Carolina, I ask myself what I feel closest to in silence. And I hear a voice, a silvery voice wrapped in secrets of red and purple, telling me to go deep, deep inside myself. Deep to the deepest part where the light lays in the center of the darkness. That it will be here I will find the celebration of who I am, why I exist, where I come from and where I am going. And in this celebration I will find the explanation that requires no explaining, the knowledge that requires no knowing, the answer that requires no questioning. Then I would understand, and then I would not understand, and then it would not matter. What so many ofus long to know and often guess about the universe and its mystical workings, the traditional Hopi know and respect. The most important realization is to celebrate and acknowledge the Great Mystery, not try and explain. What I have experienced is pure faith. A faith that obviously exists , 108 109 7 Mari.Jo Moore Bernelda Wheeler because, after all, the Hopi still have rain and their com still grows in the arid desert. Education is Our Buffalo When the Department of Indian Affairs cut back on post-secondary education in 1989, protesters chained themselves in the offices and had to be bodily taken out. They were jailed, and had to go through the judicial process. I shall forever remember the day in that Saskatoon court room. We were reminded that education is a treaty right. We heard again what it has come to symbolize for Aboriginal people when Barry Ahenekew was called to the witness stand. His oration was spellbinding, eloquent and strong. Barry described the treaty signing with the belief and passion of a professional orator. The meaning of the buffalo for prairie people was articulated. We all but saw and heard the pounding of the hooves of a thousand horses as they encircled the treaty signing area. The buffalo were gone, Barry said, but their replacement could do for us as much as the thundering herds had done in their day. When he had finished his testimony, Barry stated with strength and simplicity: "Education is our buffalo." The phrase became the title for a presentation several years later; its focus was post-secondary education. For 1993, the University of Winnipeg's distinguished chancellor's lecturer was Winona Stevenson - she, who had years earlier been in the courthouse in Saskatoon, one of the accused who were protesting cutbacks on education, the replacement for buffalo, Barry had said. The buffalo will never again be our staff of life, and education is being eroded. But, unlike the buffalo, education can be a constant and can give us what the buffalo once gave us - a rich, healthy, flourishing and balanced way of life. It can - only if the federal and provincial governments keep their part of the treaty agreements. The recent provincial government's imposition of the PST is a blatant and arrogant breach of treaty. The action tells us that Saskatchewan neither respects nor honours the treaties. Education for Aboriginal students will be maintained though - the province wants that pot 110 111 ! Bernelda Wheeler Bernelda Wheeler of gold. Multi-millions of dollars annually are poured into the provincial piggy bank for education on our behalf from federal monies. In the meantime the most a post-secondary Aboriginal student receives for living allowance while studying is $675.00 a month. At that rate the ten million that Saskatchewan will get from us in PST every year would pay for 14,814 students to live, albeit frugally, while they attend post-secondary institutions for one year. For that same amount of money almost 4,000 students could live for four years as they work towards an honours degree. And how about the almost 42,000 that this Bernston fella stole from the province? That would finance eight students through to honours degrees. After that, they would be assets to the province's economy if they live and work here. Oh stop, I say to myself, you just get upset with this kind of consideration. Perhaps it would be appropriate to consider education through the eyes and understanding of some of our ancestors: From "The Soul of an Indian," the words of Charles Alexander Eastman, or Ohiyesa, "We taught our children by both example and instruction, but with emphasis on example ... we considered the fundamentals of education to be love of the Great Mystery, love of nature, and love of people and country." Tatanga Mani, a Stoney Indian said "The Great Spirit has provided you and me with the opportunity for study in nature's university, the forests, the rivers, the mountains and the animals which included us." From his centennial soliloquy, Chief Dan George, " ... I shall rise again out of the sea; I shall grab the instruments of the white man's success - his education, his skills, and with these new tools I shall build my race into the proudest segment of your society... I shall see our young braves and our chiefs sitting in the houses of law and government, ruling and being ruled by the knowledge and freedom of our great land." Were these wise people sages, philosophers, prophets, teachers or just idealists? Perhaps they were all of that and more. When 112 I consider what they thought and taught, I can only arrive at the conclusion that if their teachings became my living, there is a power to be reckoned with. After all, one of the greatest powers we know has been identified as knowledge. All of life is learning and all of us can learn. I I I I I 113 T Bernelda Wheeler The Souls Inside of Them And the wind howls in the deserts And the wind moans the songs of their souls Songs of the worlds inside of them Songs of their pain and their shame And the songs escape in search of expression And they fight and they kill and they maim And death comes and parents weep in their grief And we know where the fury was born But it lives in the deserts within their souls The souls inside of them And the wind howled in the desert And the wind moaned the song of her soul The song of the world inside of her The Song that was locked - imprisoned within The song that sobbed in her pain and her shame The song that held secrets it gave to the desert And the desert sand was cold And the desert enslaved her in solitude That desert within her soul The soul inside of her And the wind howled in the desert And moaned the turbulent song of her soul As she lay with her face in the sand And the desert sand was cold And the images floated around her Haunted her shape shifting self The face of a holy man - trusted by all Her escape was only a dream but she ran To the desert within her soul The soul inside of her 114 Bernelda Wheeler Still the wind howled in the desert And relentlessly sobbed the song of her soul It told her to rise, to run and to shout Expose the face of the one who preyed The one who wore robes, the one who prayed The one who preyed, who preyed and preyed On a helpless child too frail to resist All the pain all the shame of the brutal acts So she hides in the desert within her soul The soul inside of her So the wind howls in the desert And the wind moans this song of her soul For years it has howled: it has moaned the story Of hypocrisy wrapped in the robes of the church While the victim survives in shuddering shame Of acts she was told were hers to keep To keep from the world - to keep to herself The acts became thoughts and memories boiled They hide in the desert within her soul The soul inside of her And the wind is in turmoil and howls to be free And it moans the agonized songs of souls It whips around comers and slashes at shadows Seeking a way to a world that is clean Seeking to scatter in fragments the fetid thoughts of souls The ones that are locked - imprisoned in hate In fear of the robes and rosary power The power that perpetrates pain The pain that hides in the deserts of souls The Souls inside of them And the wind howled and roared and tore And it wailed the songs of their souls 115 Bernelda Wheeler And it cursed the robes and rosary power That tore at the flesh of its children And the rage of the wind found a crack in the desert And it thrashed at the pain and the shame Until they slithered through cracks in the sand And left the deserts within those souls The souls inside of them And the stillness was strange when no wind howled No wind moaned the songs of their souls And the desert was bare - the images gone And they rose from the floor of the desert And the desert sand was warm And the wind was alive and whispered songs And the breeze caressed their thoughts Then life came back - lush life to the land To the deserts within their souls The souls inside of them But the wind still howls in the deserts And it moans the songs of other souls And the deserts are bare and bleak But the images come in their slithering slime Come to torment, to tear and to tease Come in their robes and their habits To torture to damn - to hate in contempt While they kneel at the alters of prayer And the wind waits in the deserts The deserts in other souls The souls inside of them And the Pope prays And the Priest preys And the nun babbles beads of the rosary 116 Metamorphosis - 1 Bernelda Wheeler Requiem for a Country Daughter 1 ,j • I She was a daughter of her beloved Canada. From the earth she dug seneca root. From the trees and plants she picked berries, And in the forest she hunted rabbit, partridge prairie chicken and deer. She fed the earth with seeds And nurtured them to food, for her family. She cried and prayed for her loved ones Through two world wars. A mother of many children, her midwife skills welcomed over 365 children to the world And her healing hands helped scores back to health. Who knows how many have walked in the moccasins she made, Have been protected by the vests and jackets Fashioned by her hands, Have appreciated the beadwork of her design. She made the best damn pork and beans we ever had And fed them to us on bowling nights. Her greatest source of pride was in her Aboriginal roots But the Scotsman in the woodpile Emerged in her anger and excitement And she shouted her rage in Scottish brogue. A fearless four foot-ten, She stomped and cried, prayed and worked, Loved and taught her way through 89 years of life And dragged us behind her. But her eyes grew dim; her strength grew less And she waited to meet her beloved Colin and their three sons. The wait is over. She's with our dad And relatives long gone And probably met them clutching her sweetgrass. To all her descendants, relatives and friends, She leaves a legacy of strength, determination, spunk 119 '1 l ' Bernelda Wheeler Brad/ee LaRocque Pride and overwhelming love. Have a pleasant journey Mom, And don't you worry, Pastor Fox gonna pray real hard for your soul. Take our love. See you in the next world All your kids, relations, students and friends. Failing Peyote 101 Peyote colours my vision. I close my eyes, set My chin onto my knees And see fire dance like prairie grass. Falling deeply, Water drum massaging my flesh away. I lean heavily into rattles' voice And climb up into the belly of an eagle. Flying backward in time. Landscape in negative, No highways or bridges, I drop out over the valley before I go too far. My body falling heavily. Pop my head up before I hit the ground. Road man smiles, elbows Harry And says, "He was gone." Water bird prays at sunrise, Feeds me Corn, Berries and Tongue Soup. Dreaming of my eagle "Good Mornings" warm my hands. 120 121 Duane Niatum Duane Niatum "Grandfather, you promised us a story if we sat still for ten seconds. I bet we've been still for one giant minute, Grandpa! We also watched our guardian, the Sun, travel down its sky path. And that took another minute. Yes, Grandpa, we never said a word as the Sun traveled through our village and on into the waves and spray. And for another story, Grandma promised she would help me bake a huckleberry pie you won't forget! It's an old family secret, Grandpa. And sweetness is its name! So, with this gift waiting to surprise, can I ask you for one that maybe your grandfather told you? Chipmunk says your lodge is made of stories, grandpa. And you once told me at bedtime that the night is a lake of stories and as endless and deep as the pathway of stars." "Ah, my little agate eye and my little maiden-hair fems. There's a story I can tell you that my grandfather told me when I was a boy about your age. It was so long ago I need a medicine paddle to get back to that beach as white as the belly of our very distant and flat-eyed cousin, the flounder. Many, many sun and moon cycles ago, a great Chief, from a village near the coastal cliffs, decided he would have a Potlatch to celebrate his long life and the good health and prosperity of his growing family. He sent runners in four directions to invite all the neighbouring villages and other tribes to attend his feast. He had spent autumn, winter, and spring in preparation, and he was in the mood to welcome guests and have a little fun. There was a rich harvest of food that had been gathered by his family, and gifts created for the honoured guests he expected from as far away as the feast bird could fly and announce the occasion of the raising of a new Longhouse. The Chief wanted everyone to know that the sea had offered the best dishes known to exist for this feast, and the forest had things to offer too. He was confident that no one would leave for his or her village feeling hungry or disappointed. Nothing had been left out of his plan. Even Thunderbird, whose voice was made of mountains, had given a flash of approval. And a daughter had sewn him a new cedar vest for the event. With such love, how could anything go wrong? The dancing would begin as soon as the Welcome Song was over and who knows how many dawns would pass before the feasting and dancing would stop. His orator's staff would shine like a cranberry in sunlight. He could feel in his heart the blood of his people would course through their veins like their sacred river. The Chief had made sure that the young people that attended would have many games to play. And my little ones, you too would have had fun attending this feast. And the parents and grandparents were promised the bone game to play. Drums would be placed into position and singers would be formed for both sides. No one would be left out of the play circle. Tribes came from up and down the coast in their great sea canoes and those now lined the beach for more than a hundred yards. The Chief had asked his guests to come and join him in putting the finishing touches on a Longhouse he and his family had built. He said this ceremonial Longhouse was a gift to his people and all his family members coming from neighbouring villages. He told his guests of all the events that were to take place during the festival and pointed out that the special event would be the placing of the center log on the top of the newly built smokehouse. The event was a contest and the Chief wanted to discover which tribe could raise the log in to position. Therefore, each village Chief was asked to have his men approach and give it a try. A few tribes could not even lift the log off the ground. Other villagers could barely get it off the ground and were unable to lift it up to their shoulders. No matter how hard they tried; none of the men could raise the log above their heads. Tribe after tribe stepped forward and could not get the log into position. You could see the sweat drop from their faces like rain. 122 123 The Story of Our Name ,, Duane Niatum Duane Niatum It was then time for our ancestors to give it a try. As the men approached the log they started singing an old, old song. Each man in the family raised an arm to honour the path of the Sun making its way beyond the village and far out into the white-mouthed sea. Our men could hear snickers and chuckles from a few of the men from visiting tribes. Our women and children also heard how poor the other tribes' manners had become. But your ancestors kept to the rhythm and pace of the song and the dance toward the log. And by standing within the full basket of their song, they were able to ignore the laughing and catcalls of the bad-mannered guests. It is true that we are not considered a people tall in stature. Nevertheless, we have never been known for our weak natures or flat-footed songs. Many tribes up and down this coast have honoured our singers. Still, some of the taller people from neighbouring tribes looked as if they were thinking to themselves: 'If we couldn't lift that heavy log over our shoulders and drop it in to place, how can the Klallams think they can? They are almost as short as the Little People of the forest; anyone can see they are going to make fools of themselves.' As our men approached the log, they could feel the blood of the earth move up through their legs and spine to their shoulders. So their power song told them that the log would be theirs. The men expected to do it and they did. Our leader called the men together and had them stand on one side of the log instead of some of them on each side. The hosts and those from other villages watched every step our ancestors took and appeared to laugh to themselves and say under their breaths, "What do these foolish people think they are up to? Are they begging us to laugh at them? Do they think we want to act as silly as them?" After our leader whispered to the men what they were going to do, they began to roll the log. The men could hear almost everyone else laugh as they moved the log. Our men sang their power song and ignored the strangers' loud laughter and blue jay squawks. They remained steady and focused in their every move and action. They shut out any distraction from their goal. Our men had watched carefully and closely the methods of the other tribes and they had formulated their own strategy. In council they chose a path and their determination could be heard in the song. Their wives and children acted as a chorus of support as the men rolled the log down to the water and floated it out until it was even with their shoulders. Our men hoisted it on to their shoulders and waded out of the water; they sang from deep within their inner natures and their eyes focused on the path ahead. They could almost see the earth breathe. Now the people from the other tribes watched in silence and became shy puzzles searching for shadows to hide in. The wives and children of your ancestors sang in waves around the men's chanting. The men stepped over to the Longhouse with the center log firmly on their shoulders. Our leader gave the signal that after the count of three all the men were to heave the log. When the leader called out three, and heave, heave, heave, the Klallam men in unison pushed the big log-pole upward and it fell into place on the top of the Longhouse. When our ancestors finished their song and turned to honour the host community, the Chief of the Potlatch stepped up to them to distribute many gifts in thanks. They were later honoured with songs and dances by the village host. All the other guests at the feast joined in the singing and dancing. The many fires along this coast thus became for a few seasons one village of peace. From that day to the present, the other tribes around us have called our people, the Klallams, 'the Strong People."' "Oh, Grandpa," one of the granddaughters asked, "Is it really a true story? I think it must be true because I suddenly feel stronger than I did yesterday," as she giggled and hid her face inside her mother's shawl. "Well, little yellow willow, the storyteller says it's an old, old story, and he believes it is true as our lives or the changes of the seasons." Their grandfather then laughed and spoke to his 124 125 Karen Olson Duane Niatum special granddaughter again. "My sweet girl, it's as true as the path of the Sun that comes and goes throughout our lives, whether we welcome it from home or far away. Our Elders from long ago told us as children that the Sun could easily be your oldest grandfather on this green ball of mountain, forest, and sea. Only Raven might be older, especially the slippery side of his shadow. And did you feel how the Sun shined a little brighter when the log fell into place at the top of the longhouse?" The girls' faces shined like crabapples with the joy of story and family and quickly answered, "Yes, Grandpa, Oh, yes!" AFTERWORD The inspiration for writing this adaptation of a Klallam sacred narrative was to lend support to the Klallams at Lower Elwha, Jamestown, and Port Gamble who are encouraging the young people to learn the language, songs, and stories of their ancestors. I hope the modem context for the story will help draw them into its world. Furthermore, key figures in the narrative are also youths, and this too, should appeal to their interest. We have passed the point where we can ignore the fact that the Klallam language is endangered, and with it our oral traditions. For decades even before I was born, the forces of Euroa:merican culture, particularly those of the missionaries, federal government and non-Native educators, succeeded in convincing or shaming American Indian children and youth into ignoring or resisting all aspects of their tribal heritage. The Language Preservation Center at Lower Elwha was created several years ago to tum that around. Blood of the Earth The last drop of water fell with a tinkle. Maria Blacksmith picked up the battered tin pail and carried it inside. Two copper bowls gleamed on the kitchen countertop. She poured water into them and prayed. "Grandmother Moon, Grandmothers of the Four Directions, thank you for this day; thank you for the sacred circle of life; thank you for protecting my family and for guiding me toward this sacred day." Maria was happy her brother wasn't around. Tommy always left the peanut butter jar open, and he never put the bannock away. She had the kitchen all to herself to prepare the food for the feast. A haunch of deer, it's purple-red flesh dark against the gleaming sink, lay in a pool of thick blackening blood. She heaved the leg onto the countertop with a grunt. A smile crept across her face. "I'm entering the Women's Circle tonight," she said for the twentieth time since waking. Using their sharpest knife, the young Cree girl sawed off two large pieces of meat, put them into a plastic bowl, and took it to the table. Just as she put the rest into the fridge, the phone rang. Maria hesitated a moment before racing to the far wall to pick it up. "Tansi, Maria here," she said. It was her cousin Susie. "Hello. What 'cha doing?" "Hey Cuz. Don't your remember, I'm getting ready for the ceremony tonight. I'm just making the stew. Want to come over and visit while I work?" A long sigh whistled over the receiver, "Ah gee, I thought we could get together over here for awhile. I just got the new Seventeen magazine," said Susie. Maria frowned. She had told Susie yesterday that she'd be busy cooking today. "I've got too much to do. Why don't you come over here?" she asked again. :' :J. ,f I 126 127 Karen Olson Karen Olson Although Susie's mother, along with several aunts, belonged to the Women's Circle, she didn't want any part of it. "Mmm. I don't know," murmured her cousin. Maria could tell that Susie was already bored. "Why not? We can talk then. We haven't had a good visit in a long time," she said. "Nah. Hey, is Tommy around? Maybe he can come over. Since I hardly ever see you anymore, we've been kinda' hanging out." Surprised, Maria asked, "What have you guys been up to?" Susie said, "I shouldn't be telling you this. The gang'll kill me ... but, we've been smoking. You know, pot. It's lots of fun. You should come over. I've got a little bit with me right now. Pete lets us girls take some." Maria felt a thud in the pit of her stomach. Tommy was only eleven and Susie, at fifteen, was only two years older than she. Pete: probably Pete McKay. He had just moved back to Pine Hills from Winnipeg. "Susie, I don't like this. Why are you and Tommy getting involved with that stuff. And with that guy?" Maria realized she was shouting. Lowering her voice, she continued, "Didn't you know Pete was in jail for robbing some old ladies? Old ladies. What kind of person does that?" Susie sounded annoyed, "Oh Maria, Pete's done his time. He's not hurting anyone. Look, I gotta go. If Tommy shows up, tell him what I said, okay? Okay?" Maria hung up then switched the ringer off. She thought about going to see her cousin, but a quick look at the clock showed that it was nearly two o'clock. The ceremony was to start at six. "I'll go see her tomorrow," she thought, and went back to the meat. Two and a half hours later a delicious aroma filled the house. The stew was bubbling on the stove, and four brown bannock lay stacked on the counter. Bannock was best when cut up just before serving so she left it. A layer of just-rinsed blueberries glistened on the table. Maria gave the stew a stir and took it off the burner. She took the butter out to soften. Everything looked ready. She took off her apron and was about to leave the kitchen when she suddenly stopped. "The tea," she screeched. The older women liked camp tea: tea boiled until it was black as night. Maria found the big teapot in the back of a cupboard, filled it with water and tea bags, and put it on to boil. Then she had just enough time for a shower. Ten minutes later, Maria raced downstairs, a wet braid slapping the back of a turquoise ribbon shirt. She also wore a long red skirt decorated with two rows of turquoise ribbons. On her feet were new floral beaded moccasins: a present from her father. The tea was boiling hard so she turned the element down to low. The bannocks were cut into squares and put into a basket. The blueberries would look best in a glass bowl. Utensils, plates and bowls went onto a tray and into the living room. Earlier, the furniture was moved against the walls. A yellow and black rug lay in the center of the room, ready for the feast on one side and the ceremonial altar on the other. After arranging the tray, Maria set the bowls of water out. A blue suitcase was on the couch. Opening it, she took out a turtle rattle, a smaller painted leather rattle and an eagle wing. These she placed where she and her mother usually sat in the circle. Then, Maria took out two long braids of sweetgrass and a bag of sage; medicine she'd gathered last month. These were set close to the water, along with a copper ashtray and a box of wooden matches. Everything looked perfect. Satisfied, she returned to the kitchen to get the food. The sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway announced that someone was home. Would Tommy be with 128 129 ,, Karen Olson Karen Olson them? Should she tell Mom and Dad? As she agonized, the door opened and her mother called out, "Maria. Are you home?" "Yeah. I'm in here," she answered. Ida Blacksmith was a tall woman with fine features. She had on an old green coat flecked with tiny bits of cedar. Maria guessed she'd been at the Sweat Lodge. "Tommy and Dad stopped off at Uncle Morrie's. They're going to stay there for the evening. Dad said to tell you he'll be thinking about you," she said with a smile. She took off her coat and carried it to the hall closet, calling out, "I'm glad Tommy's with him. He's been acting kind of funny lately. Just like he doesn't want to be around us anymore." Maria could hear the worry in her voice. As she was about to blurt out what she knew, her mother appeared in the doorway. "I'm so proud of you, my girl. There are so few girls that come into the Women's Circle. Oh, Maria, tonight is so special for me," she said, hugging her close. The sharp tang of cedar smelled good. Tonight was supposed to be sacred, a time to celebrate being a woman. How could either of them concentrate if they were worried about Tommy? Maria looked up, "It's special for me too, Mom," she said quietly. Her mother's bottom lip pulled slightly to the left, the result of a mild stroke last year. Susie and Tommy's problem could wait one more day. Gently moving away, her mother said briskly, "We should finish getting ready." "The food is ready. The ceremony stuff is out. What else should I do?" said Maria. "Go smudge the living room. I'll bring the food in," she answered. Maria nodded and left. Kneeling, she picked up a sweetgrass braid and broke the knot off. She lit the pale green plait with a wooden match. Taking the wing, Maria brushed fragrant smoke over the objects on the rug, including the food her mother had just put down. Then, she walked around the room, waving the smoke outward. When she was finished, the door opened. Great-aunt Sophie came in. Maria put the smoldering braid in the ashtray then went over. Her arms easily went around the frail body. Sophie Panagot was a small, sprightly woman who'd endured seven horrific years at the Thicket Portage Residential School before coming home with a Grade Six diploma. From that day, her Great-aunt, now fifty seven, would only speak in Cree and refused to enter a church. At funerals, she'd wait outside; sometimes, in a howling storm. "Tansi, Nitanisin," she said. Maria's smiled and replied, "Tansi. It's good to see you Auntie. Let me take your bundle. I'll put it over there." As she turned with the red woolen bag cradled in her arm, a familiar voice spoke from the door. "You have been busy. Stew smells good." Susie. Maria gave her cousin a quick grin. Her mom was putting several large, square cushions down on the floor. For the next half hour, Maria was busy putting away coats and taking bundles so she could only wonder why Susie was there. At last, old Mrs. Yellowback came in supported by her two granddaughters. She was the head woman of the Pine Hills Women's Circle. The women gently lowered her onto a cushion set against the couch. Soon, soft laughter and women's voices filled the house. At a raised hand from Mrs. Yellowback, the women began opening bundles and laying out their contents. Maria lit a sage ball and smudged all the items. Then she went to each woman, smudging her. Her mother turned off the lamps and lit a fat green candle; it would represent fire. Great-aunt Sophie filled the bowls of a dozen carved redstone pipes with tobacco before passing them to their keeper. Each woman cradled her pipe in her left arm, waiting until 130 131 -Karen Olson Karen Olson everyone had their own. Maria took her place on the floor beside her mother, smiling across at Susie. Mrs. Yellowback's pipe was lit. In a singsong voice, the head woman began to pray. "Tansi. My name is Yellow Cloud Woman. I am of the Wolf Clan. I am a Cree woman. Creator of all living things, thank you for the gift of life. Thank you for the gifts you give us each day: the sun, the moon, the stars, the medicines, and all that make our lives good. Thank you Mother Earth. I thank you for the wonderful gift of water: the blood of the earth. Thank you for giving to us women, the responsibility and duty to care for the water." Each Pipe Carrier silently said her own prayer as Mrs. Yellowback continued. The now-lit pipes were offered to the six sacred directions: upward for the Creator; downward for Mother Earth; then once toward the East, the North, the West; and finally, to the South. After each offering the pipe was turned left in a full circle. Once those honors were done, the women sat back to smoke. A peaceful silence enveloped the room. When the pipes were finished, her mother whispered, "You do the water ceremony. 11 Maria rose and walked carefully around the rug. She picked up the copper bowl, raising it while acknowledging Mother Earth for giving the gift of water. A gentle clatter broke out. Her mother, with a slight back and forth movement, sounded the turtle rattle. The small stones inside the dried shell pulsed in a rhythm that seemed to match Maria's own heartbeat: steady and strong. She closed her eyes and spoke the blessing of the water. Finally, Maria spilled a small amount onto the rug, symbolically giving back to Mother Earth what she had taken. Then she took the bowl over to Mrs. Yellowback and offered her the first drink. The old woman's black eyes met hers. Maria felt wonderful. At this very moment, everything was good in her life. Later, after hand-made gifts of skirts and leather pouches 132 had been given and admired, and the food eaten with relish, the girls had a few moments to talk as they did the dishe~. With arms deep in warm soapy water, Maria asked her cousm why she'd come. Susie was silent for a moment. "I had a visit from Mrs. Yellowback just after we talked," she began, "And she told me that Pete's her grandson." Maria's eyes opened wide and turning to Susie with her mouth slightly open, said, "I didn't know that." "Yeah. Neither did I. Anyway, Pete's had a visit from the R.C. 's. One of the kids got into trouble and told her parents about the, 11 she glanced around, 11 Ah ... about what was going on. Mrs. Yellowback got Pete to tell her all the kid's he's been hanging out with. He must have given up all of us because she came over to see me. Her and Great-aunt Sophie came. Like I said, she talked to me." Maria shook her head. Relief flowed through her. Her cousin would be okay. Tommy would be all right too. The ceremony had been beautiful. Tonight, the women had welcomed another member into their circle. "No," Maria thought, looking at her cousin, "Tonight, there were two new members." 133 Margaret McKay-Sinclair Ruiz Margaret McKay-Sinclair Ruiz My Memoirs (excerpt) Spring Catch on the Lower Falls, 1930- 1931 Fall in Grand Rapids -1930's An event that took place every year was scoop-net fishing at the mighty rapids below the falls. Scoop-net fishing was one of my favorite outings as a youngster. We would all get into rugged clothes after church on a Sunday and start our six-mile hike to the rapids. There would be about thirty or forty middle-aged women, sons and daughters. To me it was a beautiful sight to see the glistening chunks of icicles hanging from the rugged rocks on the noisy falls and a magical sunrise of many different colors that would dodge behind the icy rocks and play tricks on one's eyes. This was nature at it's best. Dad was always the leader and my favorite aunt, Sarah would tell us girls folklore stories and about her younger days as we walked. We all loved to listen. But the boys were always in a hurry to get there and they would tell Dad, "Those girls talk too much." All they wanted was to get there fast to see who could get more fish. We girls were always too slow in finding the best rock to stand on. By the time we arrived at the rapids, our brothers and friends were already scooping fish. Sarah would say, "Watch out, boys, the ladies are just as good as you! They'll maybe even catch you a sturgeon for dinner tonight." The Saskatchewan was very high from the melting snow and this made the river very fast-flowing. But that didn't keep the many fishermen and women from standing on those rugged rocks-we would all try our luck. At the foot of our great roaring rapids, hundreds of large and small pikes, white fish, and sturgeon as well as jackfish and pickerel found their way down the river that was also full of ice, broken branches, and trees. This was quite a sight to watch as we tried to scoop fish for mother's table. I just now remembered how we all got our moccasins for the long, winter months. Well, fall was the time for great moose hunts. Every man that had a gun went out to their favorite hunting ground to bag their moose meat for winter use. While the men were gone, we women would go for our fall berry picking. The berries were in the high bush; cranberries, moss berries, butter berries. We used to pick by the pail-full so our mothers could prepare them in bulk. The men would always get a moose and would dry and store the meat away for later use. Then the moose hides would be ready for the women to prepare. First they would scrape all the fat from the hides down by the river, wash off all the blood, etc. Then they would put the skin on a rack and leave the skin on this high rack. Later, two or three women would scrape the fur and after this, the other side of the hide, until all matter and fur was gone. It took almost two weeks for this process. Then the hide was put on another rack to hang there to dry for one week. Then the women would use a sharp knife made of stone. They would scrape like heck to make the huge moose hide as soft as velvet. This was the way to get the hide ready for moccasins for winter wear. After this step, they would again hang the hide on a high rack above a hole in the ground and would light a fire there with rotten tree stumps. This was to tan the hide to a lovely brown or a golden tan color. It took the women four days to tan a large hide. The smoke from the old tree stumps and trees lasted all day. It was a great smoke coming from that hole in the ground. I used to help grandma, but I didn't like how your eyes would get sore from the smoke and turn red. This was the last step. They would do about fifty hides, sometimes more as they made beaded jackets out of them too. 134 135 . Margaret McKay-Sinclair Ruiz Janet Duncan unchartered territory Winter in Grand Rapids Winter nights were long and this was moccasin-making time with beadwork or silk. Porcupine quills were also used to decorate jackets, muckluks and moccasins. They were all done very pretty especially for women. The women would try to beat each other; who did the best embroidery and beadwork. I used to watch them working hard, sewing beads under kerosene lamps or just plain oil lamps on cold winter nights. The women gathered in a huge hall and made a party out of it. And how they would gossip. I'd listen in at times. Afterward it was so good to wear our fancy moccasins at the New Year's dance or when going to church on Sunday. We loved to show them off. The young men would also show off the fancy beadwork and fringes on their jackets and muckluks. They looked so very handsome. They were all so tall and slim. Even though things were real primitive in those days compared to now, I am thankful for the way I was brought up. I was lucky to live in a time when folks could live off the land on God-given talents and skills. Strange and scary sites on these unfamiliar grounds what laws apply here? I ask myself and feel that somehow I am needlessly stepping over and around obstacles that stand in the way of an otherwise clear path My idea of peaceful cheeriness Don't I enjoy steep hills? The climb the oxygen the sweat the downhill swiftness A challenge where once climbed is no longer a strain but a memory... With an acknowledged new strength and higher vision ... vision, I think I am lacking that now Yes steep hills are fine in their own I prefer to use the ridges and climb from slope to slope with the sense of the wilderness around me Pathways to comfort and sustenance without disturbing the natural balance It is here where I am able to see clearly the threat of boundaries being broken by another's footprint orby my own 136 137 Janet Duncan Janet Duncan An individual or shared space where a sacred ground has been trodden on by either disrespect or truth Both are felt the impact and hackles raised are slow to relax while the scent stays fresh and the minds eye alert for territorial sign Scratching and digging and rubbing and rooting in mud holes, trails, trees and stone water holes shared by one after another in groups or solitude the understanding is the same the signs are there and each one creature marks the trail with their presence replaced or accepted by members of the wilderness freeway The loud thundering of grouse's wing beat or the soft continuous singsong of chickadee Survival of the fittest indeed The elements are flurried and cold or scorching and dry and who admits defeat, not I no in great effort I tum the rotting stump and dig nibbling sweet morsels at my leisure and right hmmph! hmmph! It is my presence and survival that I seek to defend acknowledgement and respect in honouring myself I say I say... I say... I say... respect and honour and acknowledgement! I tromp through the day stamping each foot again and again to emphasize the point Who's spirit is stronger? 138 139 Donald Blais Donald Blais Timely License Deliberately Circumnavigated Nick Black Elk, a one time Lakota Shaman taught II Wakan-Tanka ... Everything comes from Him and ... everything' returns to Him. 111 The cycle of cosmic salvation. Have you ever noticed that Creator doesn't seem to get bored making one human being after another, snowflake after snowflake, . gram of sand after grain of sand ' and each just slightly different enough as if an adolescent prank? Is it because Creator enters upon His-Her activity with the attitude of playfulness? The sun rises, the sun sets, and The end is the beginning, the beginning is the end with no twin between them. A dream catcher, a medicine wheel, the sacred hoop, the circle of life. Paper doll after paper doll after paper doll. Yo-yos, pinwheels, frisbees and slinkies: cyclical motion. Spinning, spinning yarns and threads of timelessness, and dreams, and hope. Cyclical playfulness is elemental to the whole plan of cosmic salvation: it is the woof and whistle and the archetype from which everything has its purpose. It is in play that people and things become whole. I . 140 141 Karen Coody Cooper Donald Blais i'1:I As The Prow Cuts Through Water A slapstick comedy of divine proportions, elking round the bend in the Nick of time. for Jim He shaped the steamed wood Into pieces for a vessel That would carry them back To familiar headwaters. FOOTNOTE 1. Nicholas Black Elk with Joseph Epes Brown, The Sacred Pipe (Norman, OK: University of Oklahoma Press, [1953] 1989), p. 80. He shaped the young boy Into a vessel Who would move forward through The arduous currents of time. There is never silence in the woods, The grandfather said, For even silence is a sound. You're never alone outside, he said, There are always ears listening And you may as well learn to talk to them. He made the child bathe in winter streams Which taught the boy to curse But such a grandfather as walks on the surface of snow Is a tangible saviour (and fine craftsman of snowshoes). While weather-hardened hands Shaved gunwales to hard satin And split to their thinnest possibility, The young boy watched And patterned himself in The image of his grandfather. As the prow cuts through water, Ripples become the journey's record of memory 142 143 Fran Pawis Fran Pawis Inspiration Encourages Transformation Soon A long hard struggle Is almost over Toe end is almost in sight My dream will soon become reality. The Ministry of Education has granted me credit before I've never failed, so far I'll be that teacher My dreams come true It's not quite over But soon - very soon. I've never tried so hard. I love working with children I did it for the children I love teaching them They are so very special We'll be together again, soon. They give me great joy I'm seeking my ultimate goal My Ontario Teacher's Certificate my Aboriginal Teacher Education diploma. I did it the hard way My example should shine All you need is a dream Believe in yourself - follow that dream! My time spent teaching children I saw their spirits advance and grow The inspiration encourages transformation which will lead them to their ultimate goal. I searched for my dream My desire was strong I never gave up Even at the darkest hour. Many, many times, I doubted I shed many tears There was no way I could quit Because of dear friends and the Creator - I survived. 146 147 April Severin Fran Pawis Allow yourself to dream Reach out - dare to try Grab onto that impossible goal Your dreams can come true. Testimony As a tadpole I could only tread water. As a frog I swim in the present, burrow into the past, leap toward the future, call out to you, again and again. Will you hear me now? 149 148 j Shirley Brozzo Shirley Brozzo My People Paid In 1492 Columbus sailed the ocean blue Wind filled the sails Maps were askew He thought he'd found India Named us anew And my people Paid With our blood In 1607 Jamestown was born Colonists were starving Powhatan gave them some com They survived They thrived No longer to mourn And my people Paid With our honour Louisiana Purchase Treks to the west Further they pushed us Further removed Taking the land that was best Pushed us and moved us Moved us and pushed Towards the ocean The mountains The badlands And just My people Paid With our land Hollywood images Mascots galore Whopping Face painting Dancing on gym floors Took our self-esteem Self-worth Pride And more And my people Paid With our self-respect It's 2001 Time for change is here Stand up and speak Raise a voice Strong and clear Our religion Culture Language Now strong Time for change Is here As my people Reclaim our lives. 150 151 Shirley Brozzo Shirley Brozzo Misshepeshu On some days when the sky above is clear and filled with sunshine, or coated in fleeting white clouds, he takes life slowly. At times there is barely a ripple to disturb his calmness. It is the type of day that fishermen rejoice in and the freighters are commanded to go "full steam ahead." Beneath the waters aquatic creatures frolic and play, basking in serenity. Along populated shores swimmers delight in the calmness and venture into his cool confines. People seeking their pleasure with a picnic basket or a beach blanket for sunning themselves flock to his banks. Individuals with children or with dogs walk along the beachfront, playing in the calm waters, building sand castles, or throwing rocks or sticks into his great expanse. Writers or people who are stressed wander along his shores seeking solace in the gentle movements of the water. Meanwhile, desolate areas are caressed as he ebbs and flows as a part of his life, much like we breathe in and out without having to think about it. But don't let Misshepeshu fool you. He can change his attitude without warning. Like a man taken in by the bottle, his demeanor changes, often without warning. His waters begin churning and bubbling. A once calm exterior is replaced with waves large enough to scare off small water crafts and make freighter pilots pay attention to the paths before them. The fish people and others who live in Misshepeshu world head for nooks and crannies, the hiding places within his confines, only venturing out for a quick bite to eat, then darting back into hiding again. Near the cities there are still people who congregate along the shore. Some are thrilled at the idea of being able to surf on the greatest of lakes. These people taunt Misshepeshu by surfing or trying to swim, not realizing the power he has, creating swiftly moving underwater currents, undertows and whirlpools. The winged people have trouble staying afloat or diving for food and quickly return to the sky, a sky which even reflects s 152 Misshepeshu s mood by turning ugly grey, cloudy, and often blustery. Individuals choosing to walk his shores are often bundled up, still seeking refuge from their reality. Gentle caresses along barren shores become angry slaps as he unleashes his fury. There is very little that can be done to appease him then, with one exception. All too often when Misshepeshu gets like this he claims the lives and souls of those who do not understand his greatness, his power, his strength. Those who do not understand or respect his omnipotence and provoke him by venturing into his domain when he is like this find themselves caught up in his vicelike grip, from which there is often no escape. He has claimed fishermen, swimmers, and sightseerers who did not understand. He demands reverence. He demands respect. For when he doesn't receive them and his fury turns to rage, like the uncontrollable alcoholic, he doesn't care what happens. Together with the spirit of the sky he conjures up the worst conditions imaginable. Black clouds reflect his disposition. Gale force winds fly across his great expanse as colossal waves rise up to join them. A single soul is not enough to placate this spirit so he reaches out for freighters full, like the Edmund Fitzgerald. The word of the day for the fish people is "dive, dive, dive" as they all head for the depths, to try to escape. Foolhardy people assemble near breakwalls or bridges to marvel at his magnificence but sometimes forget that although a single soul may not feed his hunger, it is a start. Too many forget to honour him, and lose their lives. In punishment he gobbles up lakeshore cabins, homes or small boats until he exacts his dues. Uninhabited areas fare no better as he pummels shorelines, swallowing trees, then spits them out miles away. His tirade may last for an hour or for days, until he feels appeased. He can be the most docile of creatures, if people would remember to respect him. But since we are humans, and tend to forget, he will continue taking revenge soul by soul. 153 Gordon de Frane Gordon de Frane Oldest Medicine In the World I recall a story Johnny Moses told once. His story was about rock medicine, the oldest medicine in the world. He said it was the oldest medicine in the world and I believed him. "Rock medicine has been around since time immemorial," he said. Rock medicine is powerful, so very powerful indeed. I used to wonder though; I've never heard a rock speak, not ever. I used to wonder, could it mean that rocks can't speak or that they just choose not to speak? I know that plants speak to us! Oh, I know they don't speak like human peoples do; at least that's what the xunitum believe; but speak they do nevertheless. I know they speak; all I have to do is watch their words as they talk with me. The language they use is in the colour, shape, and growth that whisper quietly to me. They tell me when it's blossom season by flushing with new green shoots and buds. They tell me when it's time to harvest when they send up the first new growth of spring. Of course, what the Hungry People don't know is that Plant Peoples do talk the way we do. Plants also tell me when it's almost summertime, when the sockeye return. They do this by enticing me with berries. Plants also tell me when they are not happy; they tell me when they need water, or when they are sick. I can tell this by watching the leaves wilt, change colour sometimes they die. Plant People also tell me when autumn is coming; their leaves change from vibrant green to gold, to crimson, to amber and finally to russet. They drop their leaves rather then risk being damaged by the transforming winds of the winter moons. Through the brilliant colours they wear at this time, they whisper to me: prepare for winter. I remember as a child hearing laughter and frolicking voices on all sides of me as I walked through the bush, following my dad. He was hunting deer while I was hunting other things: milky quartz, interesting plants and pinecones fallen 154 from the pines and firs above. We had gotten separated. I was so intent on finding treasures and gifts of interest that I just lost sight of him. Later I would find him easily enough as I followed the sound of his rifle bagging the first deer of the season. It was during that short time apart I became aware of the voices and laughter that seemed to come from everywhere and yet nowhere. I stopped dead in my tracks_ when I realized w~~t it was and what it meant. I had stumbled mto a grove of devil s club. The voices and laughter was coming from the sharp thorny plants that towered over me. But I was in the centre of these potentially pain-inflicting plants I didn't receive so much as a scratch. They were gentle with me and careful not to injure me as I moved about with them. They indulged me like loving grandparents do. I must have been with them for about an hour until I heard the rifle ring out loud. I learned that day that they had recognized me as a relative and were glad that I had stopped to play with them. The memory of that day has stayed with me ever since. Too, since that day, I discovered the medicine of Devil's Club is closely associated with people like me. People like me are considered special. The plants associated with my kind are sacred too. People like me can whither and die just as plants can wilther and die from lack of sun and water People like me can die from lack of care and love, or because of hate and prejudice. While plants and people drink. I've never seen a rock drink. I've never seen a rock wilt, and I don't think they ever die. But do they speak? That's what I want to know. I also wonder what it was like for our Plant People cousins and other relatives to learn the unfamiliar talk of the Hungry People? What's it like for them to stumble and trip over those foreign words? What's it like for them to hear us offer prayers in that foreign language? I know Plant People enjoy making our sad and withering hearts happy again. My Elders have taught this to me. They've said that whenever I'm heavy-hearted I should go for a walk in the company of big trees or in a thicket. The people 155 Gordon de Frane Gordon de Frane there will lift from me my burden and heal the heaviness that hinders my songs. Indeed, this is very true of big trees. I think taking our sorrow from us makes them even bigger. And I have seen some pretty big trees in my time. In the sweat, the ribs of the lodge are made from willow who have willingly given-up their lives. They have done this so that those who gather inside can get cleaned. While sitting in the sweat, I listen to the prayers and acknowledgments the Sch'nem (one who works with the medicines) as he or shealways give thanks for willows sacrifice. Also inside, in memory of the first darkness, rocks are called the grandfathers. They heat the sweat and impart their medicine to us inside that dark moist home of first homes. Inside, I sing or cry my pain. Sometimes I see things in the sweat; sometimes, the rocks appear not as rocks but as other people, other things. Each has a story to tell and I listen with ears that cannot hear; I see things with eyes that cannot see. I feel things that cannot be felt. I taste things that cannot be tasted. And I smell things that cannot be smelled. In the sweat, I've never heard the grandfathers speak. Inside, I hear the prayers and songs offered up in joy and pain, celebration and thanksgiving. The grandfathers gathered in the centre sit quietly as they listen to those of us who speak or sing our pain, letting go of our hurts and offering thanks. They glow crimson in the centre of our world as we sit waiting for their healing medicines to touch us, transform us. They make us shine crimson and our skin grows slick with their medicine working to clean our spirits, making our hearts and minds strong. The water poured on the grandfathers sings and whistles; still, they remain silent. In their silence I listen for their wisdom, the teachings that will help me and guide me. They stay silent. They hold their tongues, but they witness. And they remember. I learn through their teachings of silence. I'm reminded of another story about the oldest medicine 156 in the world. It is a song of prophecy called the Butterfly Song. It tells us that long ago, the rocks thought they were people. I wonder if they talked then, back then when only they existed and humans had not yet fallen from the skies. When stacked, as in the far north, I wonder, do the rocks speak? When piled, their message tells other people ~hat someone else has been that way. Does this mean they talk hke we do? When painted or etched do rocks speak? Or is it the painted images that speak to those who kn~w and under~tand. Often, I have seen the xunitum buy such pamted rocks without so much as a thought. Spirituality cannot be bought or sold. To them even spirit is to be bought and sold. I think that rocks are very forgiving and accepting of their fates at the hands of those who use them as such. I don't think I would care to be heated to red-hot or scarred with etchings, painted with designs that make me speak when I don't want to. No, it seems rocks are made of much sterner stuff then we humans-the two-legged. It seems that animals speak, too, but not in our way. The whales sing their songs, sing their words; that's how it was long ago when our storytellers sang the stories. The Seal People bark their words. The Bird People sing and chirp their songs as well. I once heard Johnny Moses sing the Bumblebee Song. And if I close my eyes and think real hard I can recall bits and snip~ets of the words that the bumblebee sings. Warm and sweet-tastmg, the words are like the honey and nectar gathered from the many flowers Bumblebee makes love to. I've never heard a rock sing. Would its words, its songs, be cold and hard? Or would they sing and whistle like the water that is poured on them in the sweat? I recall a story about the buffalo and how they came into being on the Great Plains long ago. There was a trickster involved in that story; tricksters are always getting into trouble, it seems. They get into trouble even when they are trying to do good. Many a two-legged has been in such trouble, especially 157 Gordon de Frane Gordon de Frane those who govern us, so it seems. And so, the story goes that this trickster fellow was in flight from some failed venture and as he ran he picked up stones along the way throwing them over his shoulder. When each stone touched the earth again it was transformed into the mountains now called The Rockies and among the plains they became the buffalo. Of course, there are no more buffalo on the Great Plains, not like before, anyway. The story also says that even now, the Great Stones, which I've seen on the plains, are the spirits of the buffalo waiting to return one-day. When they return I wonder if we will be here to greet them, to welcome them? I wonder what those stones thought as they were being transformed? What is it like to be a mountain? Would the transformed rocks on the plains be pleased to be buffalo again? Would they be pleased to know that they were wiped out last century when the Hungry Ones first appeared? I wonder if they talk amongst themselves as they sit on the Great Plains waiting for another Great Transformation so that they can feed the people once more? Each summer when I walk the streets of the land called Windy Place - Victoria - I feel the rock medicine beneath me , imprisoned in the concrete and asphalt covering the earth. They are great black and gray ribbons stretching to the four doorways. These rocks speak when they grow hot beneath the sun's unrelenting smile. Oh, I know they no longer look like rocks, ground, mashed and mixed into xunitum stones, but still they are there. And still they remain silent. I think that rocks must be a very forgiving people. I doubt I would stay silent for long if it was me or my relatives ground into concrete or spread like molasses in ribbons across the land. Sometimes, I see rocks fit into place, holding up grand houses that the privileged Hungry Ones live in. But only a few of the Hungry Ones live in these places. There are many more Hungry Ones who don't live in such fine homes. Like many of my cousins they live without. For these other Hungry Ones their homes are among the xunitum rocks called streets. Their pillows are made of stone. I wonder if the people who live there can hear the rocks speak beneath them? Or have the mouths of the Rock People been ground into silence, forever and ever? Silent again, rocks don't speak, can't with no mouth. Maybe that's it! Maybe rocks have had their mouths removed. In a way I guess they have. In Johnny Moses' first story about rocks, he told us his granny had used the medicine in a way that saved her and her grandson, Johnny, from the evils of a heart that could not, would not allow itself to hear their hearts singing to him. Their hearts sang in the language of humans; his heart could not, would not allow this. The second story is one of hope that the rocks will come back one day and be among the people as the spirit of the buffalo. Rocks it seems can be many things to our people. But still, I have not heard of one speaking! My cousin William George wrote a poem about Rocks once. His professors failed to understand what it meant. "We are Rock" is one of his lines; we have been here since we first fell from the skies. Still they didn't understand or maybe they didn't want to understand. They failed to understand the medicine of my cousin's words. After all, it's the Hungry People that sell our medicines; that's bad. But what's worse is when one of our own sells it. I figure at least the xunitum don't know any better. And we, we who should, have no excuse. Maybe it's only the Hungry People who cannot hear the rocks speak. This could explain why I couldn't hear them: I'm only a half-breed. Still, I hear other things speak; I see other things speak to me. So maybe I'm not so half-breed after all. According to Johnny Moses, Rock medicine is the oldest medicine in the world. The Rocks were here before the twolegged fell from the skies. They will be here after the twolegged are gone. Maybe the two-legged had better learn to hear the Rock people before it's too late. And so the Butterfly Song 158 159 ,. Gordon de Frane Eric A. Ostrowidzki is a prophecy of this time. Maybe Rocks don't talk because we don't know how to listen. That, it seems, is why Rocks choose not to talk. The Hungry People have not the ears to hear them with. YO, Brown-skinned Girls Don't Steal Gold Rolexes To Kleya Forte-Escamilla and Gloria Anzaldua "Juanita! Juanita-Conseulla Martinez! Your brother Paco was over here Looking for you! Him and his homies Were driving the lipstick-red MustangThe one with the bitching black stripes! He said he don't want you runnin' round By yourself in the 'hood' no more. He said it ain't safe for you cuz There's a drug war goin' on in the barrio. Already too many of Paco's homeboys Have had their cajones shot off. Juanita! Are you listening to me?!! Take off that Walkman and maybe you Can hear me for a change, baby-sister. Juanita! Where are you goin' with your Purple beret and your Sony Walkman? I'm goin' to tell Paco if you don't listen!" Everyday Juanita-Conseulla Martinez Would walk to work at The Tequila Sunrise Motel Where she made about $3 .25 per hour Changing the linen, making the beds, Swabbing toilets, sweeping carpets, Emptying ashtrays, throwing out booze Bottles and beer cans and condoms, wrapping spotless Waterglasses in germ-proof tissue; and Don't Forget to Leave the "House Courtesy Mints" Upon the pillows. If Juanita was having an especially unlucky day, One of the male residents would return To his room before Juanita had a chance 160 161 if' Eric A. Ostrowidzki Eric A. Ostrowidzki To restock the rolls of toilet paper, and, Flashing a green wad like a Mister Bigbucks from Madrid, He would lunge at this Chicana girl around The pinewood doublebed like a blindfolded Drunkard trying to jab a long wooden pole At a festive-coloured papier mache burrow. With her purple beret worn at A dangerous slant to the side and her long Black hair dyed a brilliant parrot-green, Juanita-Conseulla Martinez always walked To The Tequila Sunrise each morning. By 7:00 AM Juanita was sending her Seven younger brothers off to school, And by 9:00 AM she was all dressed In her starched bubblegum-pink uniform With her Sony Walkman jacked all the way Up to the goldenflower barrio-moon ready To give her a boost like no crack-cocaine could Ever give. Sometimes Juanita-Conseulla Would tum the volume of her Sony Walkman Even louder as if to deaf out the Moans And groans And drones Of a million lonely whitemen who haunted The rooms like bleating flannel-gray ghosts. 0 sweet Juanita with the blue-black eyes Like the Homegirl of the Virgin Guadalupe! She was a $3.25-an-hour-slave, And her mother was a $1.25-a-day-slave before her, And her mother's mother was a 50¢-a-week-slave before her. While she changed the snot-yellow sheets Of the pinewood doublebeds, picking up 162 A pair of red polka-dotted boxer shorts And waving them around as if they were Custer the Clown's Flag of Surrender, Juanita imagined that she was living Some other life, in some other place, Where no Brown-Skinned Girls had To slave in a Pink Polyester Uniform of Death. Listening to some righteous blackman rap About Drugs and Drivebys and Doomsday, Juanita-Conseulla did not hear The metallic scratch of a worn key In the brass cylinder of the doorlock, Nor did she see the little bald waddling man In the brown baggy suit enter the room, Eyeing her with the perverse glee Of a paedophile in a kindergarten classroom. Juanita-Conseulla Martinez - Paco's Younger sister - didn't mean to kill the Florid portly little Watch-Salesman but when He started to accuse her of stealing One of his GOLD RO LEX WATCHES and Threatened to call the cops if she didn't Pet his penis as a 'gesture of international goodwill' Between two hostile nations, Juanita Panicked, pushing the little whiteman Down, pushing him hard, hard enough For him to fall and crack his rosy bald-pate Against the sharp edge of a glass-topped Coffee table, with a final, branch-snapping crack. Out cold. Most likely dead. With his Tongue lolling out like a dead calf s Blue tongue engorged in a butcher-shop window. 163 Eric A. Ostrowidzki Eric A. Ostrowidzki On his thin white wrist there was clasped A GOLD ROLEX WATCH whose gold plate was Flaked to reveal a dull undercoat of gunmetal grey. The Fake! The bastard was a fake: His watches weren't even real gold! With her eyes gone blue-blacker than The beads of her grandmother's rosary, Juanita-Consuella Martinez knew that If the white cops arrested her, they Would send her away for a very long time. So she prayed and she paced. She fretted And she raved. Then, as if by a Miracle Of the Holy Virgin-Mother, there was a voice Which came over her Walkman that told her In the whip-tongued voice of her grandmother To RETURN TO THE LAND OF HER ANCESTORS. Juanita just about freaked when she heard That. She just about ran out of the room And gave herself up to the cops without a struggle. But then she noticed hanging there on the wall A black velvet painting whose vibrant vista Vibrated in smoking pastel-blues, blazing Oranges, smouldering roses, and flaring neon-greens. Framed in the same cheap chocolate-brown pineboard Like everything else in the motel-room, The painting seemed to beckon her Into a Mayan Temple surrounded by A lush vegetation of electric emerald; Though it was only a black velvet painting Like the kind depicting Spanish villas With verandas and dusky grape vineyards Sold to gringo tourists for a slew of pesos Back on the dusty arid streets of Juarez. 164 Not knowing how she knew what to do, Juanita literally jumped into the black velvet painting Depicting the ancient Mayan Temple as if into the Day-Glo swirling haze of a Whirlpool of Time. Immediately she was embraced by hot strong winds And a thousand voices as if she were listening To a COSMIC SONY WALKMAN which had unlimited channels, Though she preferred salsa music to the present celestial gabble. Simultaneous with her entry into the Psychedelic wind-tunnel of a kaleidoscopic vortex, Juanita-Conseulla Martinez sprouted a thick fleece Of tiny rainbow feathers over her entire body Which helped her to fly through this Muffled landscape of black velvet rocks and pink polyester sequoia. As she approached the beginning of the arrival of whitemen, Little Juanita of the Lost Barrio near MacArthur Park Fled that big and bad Conquistador Cortez And his outlaw band of bandits Who shot Ticking Golden Arrows Of envy, murder, cruelty, and greed at her. With her body a shimmering whorl Of tiny rainbow-plumage and her long hair A bouffant mass of kryptonite-green snakes, Juanita Stood before the sacrificial alter of a Mayan Temple, Which was a long way from The Tequila Sunrise Motel. No longer wearing her pink polyester uniform, Juanita stared defiantly at the coterie Of Mayan Priests who were just about to Sacrifice one hundred Brown-Skinned Girls. In her most polite-to-strangers-voice, Juanita slammed into the High Priest, "YO, ese, What you and your gang-bangers Be