Gatherings IX The En' ow kin Journal of First North American Peoples Beyond Victimization: Forging a Path to Celebration Fall 1998 Theytus Books Ltd. Penticton, BC, Canada PRINTED AND BOUND IN BOUCHERVILLE, QUEBEC, CANADA BY MARC VEILLEUX IMPRIMEUR INC. IN OCTOBER, 1997 r Gatherings The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples Volume IX 1998 Table of Contents Introduction Enduring A Sister Flies Ahead of Me Now Carol Snow Moon Bachofner Give Us the Stars & The Moonlight Victoria Lena Manyarrows Where I Come From Victoria Lena Manyarrows In Oklahoma Victoria Lena Manyarrows What We Are Not Carolyn Ann Doody Untitled Chris Bose There Are No Vanished Tribes Connie Fife Loaves and Fishes Dawn Karima Pettigrew The Trade Jan Bourdeau Waboose turtle island holocaust Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm Inside the House, a Dream Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm Passing Seasons Bonita Marie Voght sun baked grass Nikki Maier this generation William George Copyright 1998 for the authors. Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data Main entry under title: Gatherings Annual. ISSN 1180-0666 1. Canadian literature (English)--Indian authors--Periodicals. 2. Canadian literature (English)--20th century--Periodicals. 3. American literature--Indian authors--Periodicals. 4. American literature--20th century--Periodicals. I. En'owkin International School of Writing. II. En'owkin Centre. PS8235.16G35 CSl0.8'0897 CS91-031483-7 Editor: Assistant Editor: Technical Editor: Design & Layout: Proof Reading: Cover Design: Cover Art: Greg Young-Ing Graham Proulx Rasunah Marsden Marlena Dolan Regina (Chick) Gabriel Marlena Dolan Lisa Hudson Please send submissions and letters to Gatherings, c/o En'owkin Centre, RR #2, Site 50, Comp. 8, Penticton, BC, V2A 6J7, Canada. All submissions must be accompanied by a self-addressed envelope (SASE). Manuscripts without SASE's may not be returned. We will not consider previously published manuscripts or visual art. The publisher acknowledges the support of the Canada Council, Department of Canadian Heritage and the Cultural Services Branch of the Province of British Columbia in the publication of this book. Printed in Canada 1 5 7 8 10 12 13 15 17 23 27 29 31 33 36 Confronting I Me again Chris Bose What the Auntys Say Sharron Proulx-Turner Mr. Season Dawn Maracle The Healing Jan Bourdeau Waboose Mixed Bloods Donna M. Dean Biography of a Person of Substance Donna M. Dean The Community Is Starving William George The Burning Sharlene Frank 41 43 46 51 52 53 55 59 l r Look Within And Accept Joanne Peter "Digehwi" (Blind) Bobby Jordan Barker A Healing Stone Monica Goulet 64 65 66 Beyond The Theology of Turbulence Dawn Karima Pettigrew Red Cheryl Savageau Trees Janet Rogers All Things Janet Rogers Beingness Song Mickie Poirier Making Do Mickie Poirier about love connections Carol Lee Sanchez Untitled Carol Lee Sanchez Mountain Drops Tracey Bonneau It Was Only ... Yesterday Henry Michell Stephen Andrews Gerry William Mountain Goats Gerry William Untitled Charlene Linda Miller Child Inside Karen Coutlee t • 69 ~ 72 t 73 ~ 74 75 76 77 79 my granny inspired me Vera M. Wabegijig Tahltan Carolyn A. Doody We Go Forward Carol Snow Moon Bachofner Virgin Dance Sharon Bird Montanna Rose Bonita Marie Voght My Life is a Tobacco Tie Gord Bruyere Building A Fire Lois Red Elk The Rabbit Story Strong Woman (Julianne Jennings) Land, Relationship and Community James Nicholas Opportunities for Growth Barbara Helen Hill • • ~ •' ' • t 82 ~ I 83 [ The Drought and The Thunder Bird Alana Sayers A Blank Spot In Me Theresa Watts Blank Spot In My Head Jolene Shantelle Watts I Remember Michelle Butterfly April Hale Untitled Shauna Atleo and Nathan Lafortune Nanuk is an Inuit Word for Bear Patricia Star Downey Rocking Chair Patricia Star Downey 84 88 Celebration To Celebrate Not Explain The Mystery MariJo Moore Celebrating Com Karenne Wood The Oldest Path Jack Forbes The Quest Jack Forbes Untitled Mahara Allbrett Ravens Mahara Allbrett Deeply Breathing Vera M. Wabegijig 92 107 108 109 110 111 112 114 116 121 Youth 80 81 104 127 128 129 130 131 132 133 134 Elders Ke Ke 93 94 95 t Verna Diablo The Unknown Song Verna Diablo A Child of Six Lillian Sam 139 Biographies 141 137 138 100 101 102 Greg Young-Ing Introduction I was an aspiring writer fresh out of university in 1990. That was the year I had some work published in the first volume of Gatherings: The En'owkin Journal of First North American Peoples published by Theytus Books. I vividly recall the excitement running through the Aboriginal writers community about the first journal in North America that would publish a current sampling of Aboriginal literature each year. The following year, I was asked to be Managing Editor of Theytus Books. Though I was young and inexperienced , I could not turn down the challenge of working with the first Aboriginal owned press in Canada. And so I could scarcely believe it when I found myself Editor of Gatherings Volume II in 1991 and Volume III in 1992. After that we decided to approach different Aboriginal writers and/ or teachers to edit the journal each year. Thanks to Jeannette Armstrong, Linda Jaine, Don Fiddler, Beth Cuthand, Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm, Joyce Joe, William George, Susan Beaver, and the many others who have volunteered their time and talent toward the editorial effort required to compile this journal each year. Many thanks also to the hundreds of Aboriginal writers who have contributed their work over the years. In this ninth volume, we have sought submissions under the theme "Beyond Victimization: Forging a Path of Celebration." Aboriginal Peoples have much to celebrate. Our ceremonies, literature, stories, songs, dances and cultural traditions, are all testimony of nations steeped in pride, strength and forbearance. Through cultural celebration, we enable ourselves to respond positively to the issues of the day-thus empowering the agenda of achieving appropriate cultural, political and legal recognition. We hope this theme has produced a volume that encompasses a wide range of literary approaches. Here in 1998, after publishing eight volumes of Gatherings and over fifty titles, I find myself once again at the editorial helm of another volume of the journal, as we look back and ponder the prospect of celebrating one decade of Gatherings next year. Greg Young-Ing, Managing Editor 1 Enduring Carol Snow Moon Bachofner A Sister Flies Ahead of Me Now (For EK (Kim) Caldwell 1954-1997) I discover you not unlike the way Columbus supposed he had discovered us; you were already there ... settled, imposing, beautiful, shining in the light of morning. We sit, reeking of sage, flying to gather in the Oneida woods. In the old way of asking, we find each other sisters in the family circle of word weavers, of story singers, of water bearers. Your smiles collect on my shoulders and my ears ring with your words. We are women, satisfied to sit with our saged-up bodies and learn each other. We have husbands, write poems to stay alive, love being brown. I know you a thousand days by the end of our five hour flight. Now you fly overhead; I cup my eyes, shadow the sun to see you; yesterday I caught a breath of sage in the grocery store, thought you might be there buying oranges or bread for dinner. I walk past the waft of memory; hear you chuckle. I buy the oranges and bread myself, crying and laughing and getting a new poem. 5 Carol Snow Moon Bachofner My sage is safe in the Eagle bag you gave me when we met. You are there too in the twist of red cloth, in the pocket of my coat where my hand can touch your gift. Fire and I send sparks of prayers to where you fly. You are a brown, round woman of the air, circling me and giving me new songs to sing, new words to weave. So how can I begin to miss you? Victoria Lena Manyarrows Give Us The Stars & The Moonlight for Mary TallMountain when you left us we remembered your steady words, your strong spirit your words about the land & people you were taken from when you were young we remembered your spirit that so often rose up high in the sky and carried us over every sharp peak every deep abyss you saved us, Mary Tallmountain Mary TallMountain you saved us with your words & songs & dreams about our Native America your Alaskan, Athabaskan birthplace Mary, give us this day give us the stars & the moonlight the sunlight fierce, the ocean winds blowing the shine in your eyes, still present in every blinking streetlight in every busy storefront window in this sometimes foggy sometimes sunny vibrant city that was your home for so many yearsMary, San Francisco, your urban tenderloin, misses you. 6 7 ! Victoria Lena Manyarrows Victoria Lena Manyarrows Where I Come From where i come from people are not afraid to fight not afraid to speak up & speak out to challenge injustice. where i come from people love join together & help one another sometimes argue, sometimes fight each other but remember to make peace with each other remember who the real enemy is. wide open fields & sunny blue skies are where i come from where i come from. dry canyons & raging rivers are where i come from where i come from. mountains of snow & lakes of ice are where i come from where i come from. red earth red earth a land so dark & giving is where i come from where i come from. where i come from people struggle people are poor people don't always have enough to eat enough clothes to wear but people share. where i come from people dare to be different dare to begin revolutions dare to sing & dance dare to love dare to love. where i come from people make music with the wind, trees, earth and drum. 8 9 Victoria Lena Manyarrows Victoria Lena Manyarrows IN OKLAHOMA in oklahoma, it's said the civil war never died. in oklahoma, we watch right-wing reactionaries white cloaked reactionaries murder blow up babies, young children mothers, fathers, families of all races, all colours. in oklahoma, we never knew that yesterday's land wars and murder of indian young would come back to haunt your blue skies. we never knew the civil war never died in oklahoma and somehow we forgot how modem-day terrorists like yesterday's terrorists never hesitate to kill ... in oklahoma, how easy it is to kill in oklahoma, how easy it is to forget whose land you're on the trail of tears 150 years of indian deaths indian lives that never mattered to the ruthless land-robbers to the hateful colonizers of oil-rich indian lands. In oklahoma, we never knew your green hills and blue spring skies would be darkened by the ash & smoke of a megaton bomb. we never knew your young & old & hardworking & poor would die in a flash of hatred, revenge and deathwe never knew. In oklahoma we never knew how many would suffer would lose their children, loved ones, friends 10 11 Carolyn Ann Doody What We Are Not They walk alone in fear of everything They compete with one another, for power and material things. They respect nothing, consider nobody but themselves. Their fate is tragedy their selfishness breeds hatred. Their divided nations created instability and isolation. Their future will prove them wrong. They oppress other nations they dominate our world They create laws that limit our movement They impose sanctions which halt our successes. They tell us "no," as if we were children We are not. Chris Bose Untitled Tonight is the night of fire of fire sage and eagle feathers tonight I crawl through ceremony sage and stars I scream and scream again the names of those who have desecrated my body my soul I scream at the moon for revenge justice you did not have to go to a residential school to suffer hell I did not go to a residential shool it came to me 12 13 Connie Fife Chris Bose but tonight as I stand in a forest in the mountains I take it all back one song one ceremony one night at a time and there is nothing you can do about it. There Are No Vanished Tribes storm clouds migrate in my direction, arms outstretched as if to embrace me in the manner of words. i sit, an anxious mother waiting for her children to return after a long absence. they come home in the shape of gray blue bodies crawling down the mountains outside a bed i chose as my own. the songs returning home have been contorted through centuries of abuse, lungs clawed at by steel jaws, torn away in their youth then left for dead in clear-cut forests and diverted rivers. words and song slip off the tongue of crow. she feeds those of us still alive, sliding her beak down our throats, replacing starvation with the voices caught on the breath of millennium. words and song fill my stomach drowning my heart in resistance my mouth wide open they leave in their wake a trail for others yet to come. they have survived and have come home to me, illuminated in translucent light, knowing they have not been numbered amongst the missing. in my belly a ghost dance of tone and rhythm is taking place. only outsiders believe in vanished tribes, between my joints they are still living. they dance within pregnant clouds. they roam inside my house, filling my rooms with conversation and laughter. i watch as they throw off their cloaks of starvation and disease, discarding half truths and broken promises. they are planning a revolt and scream revolution at the slow rising red moon, chanting, calling me home. their blood is seen roaming across horizons yet to be formed. they call come home, come home, understand the moment is now. they whisper listen to the movement within your ribcage, words, song, vanished tribes crawl out from beneath rocks. they slither into the palm of tomorrow. spitting into the earth they birth revolution. words, song, vanished tribes housed in stones voice slide down my throat. they murmur the moment is now. 14 15 Connie Fife storm clouds migrate home i sit an anxious mother waiting for her children to return following their absence they return in the shape of words and song filling my house with conversation and laughter vanished tribes crawl inside my stomach where a ghost dance has almost finished crow has filled my belly with the tone and rhythm of revolution while overhead the moon slowly rises as blood flows down her cheeks 16 Dawn Karima Pettigrew Loaves and Fishes Manna Redpaint forages for food. She tears through the cardboard boxes of Tide under the sink, sending sandy powder across the tile floor. A box of Brillo contains only Brillo pads. Manna hurls the pads over her slim shoulder. Gallup has been cruel to Manna. She hitched a ride here from Cherokee, North Carolina, fled here with a fancy dancing stranger. She meant to escape her domineering mother and to forget a flute player named Thomas Crow. Instead, Manna Redpaint has hunger pains, indigo bruises and a baby-a toddler really-left behind by one of the stranger's drinking pals. She is forgetting what it is like to eat from all four food groups in the same day. "Russian roulette," Manna Redpaint says to no one in particular. She drums her slender fingers against the once-white of the refrigerator. "Open the door-there's food-we live. There's not ... " Manna Redpaint bites the inside of her golden cheek. She shuts her eyes and wraps her hand around the handle. Manna Redpaint opens the refrigerator. The bulb lights timidly. One egg sits forlornly among thirteen red and white cans of Budweiser. Manna, who already has teeth and bones strong enough for all practical purposes, gave the last of the milk to the baby yesterday. She prays that calcium is cumulative. Loaves and fishes gone haywire, Manna muses. Good sign. If she can joke, her mind must be working. As long as she can think, she can create a solution, stay one hunger pang ahead of starvation. Manna rubs her black hair between her hands. The sound makes Manna feel like a Scout, setting forests aflame with friction. Manna opens the cupboard again, removing only a plastic compact. No crumpled portraits of Thomas Jefferson fall from the layers of pressed powder. The compact clatters into the sink. Fragile grains float into the ever-present drip of water and disappear. Lifting the smooth compact, Manna Redpaint drops it again. It clatters against the chrome, losing slices of powder. "No! No! No!" Manna roars. She strikes the sink with the side of her hand. The compact leaps, landing with a shattering sound. Glass slivers shower her waist, scatter over her knuckles, as the lid surrenders. Tiny droplets of blood flow crimson over her fingers. 17 Dawn Karima Pettigrew Manna reaches for a dishtowel, wincing at its sourness. She turns on the faucet. Her own blood floods away with dust of opal powder. Shaking her hand free of blood and water, Manna wraps it in the dishrag. Manna's blood produces no miracles. The baby is standing in the doorway, watching. Her peaked face convicts Manna, who has been crushing compacts and feeling sorry for herself instead of feeding her. Manna wipes her wet eyes with her good hand. "Oh Baby, I am so sorry." The baby stares at Manna. Her eyes widen as she notices the blood seeping onto Manna's skirt through the dishrag. "Hurt?" "Honey, it's just scratches. It hurts a whole lot more on the inside than on the out. "Ouch?" "Yes, ouch, but not too bad. I'm sorry if I scared you." She is not only letting this child starve into the next world, but terrifying her in the process. "My temper got away from me for a minute, but I chased it down and brought it back." Another joke. She has not lost her entire mind. "I'm fine, honey, Manna's okay." "Mama, okay?" Manna has no idea. She can hardly keep up with her own hunger pangs and breaking mirrors and worry about this baby's missing mother at the same time. "I don't know, sweet pea. I don't even know who Mama is. But I'm fine. Manna's fine." The baby considers this gravely. "Mama okay." She smiles at Manna, who realizes that her tiny jaw is moving. Chewing. "Is there something in your mouth?" The baby nods. "Are you eating?" Another nod. Food. Manna hopes that whatever it is, it's nontoxic and plentiful. She forces calmness into her voice as she reaches for the child. "Can you show me what you're eating?" Nodding again, the baby draws a sheet of paper from behind her small back. The paper is the colour of tired goldenrods. The corners and a fair part of the middle are missing. 18 Dawn Karima Pettigrew "Oh good Lord." Manna's heart grows more exhausted by the minute. The baby places the paper in Manna's palm. "Thank you, honey." Manna closes her weak fingers around the coloured paper. She hopes that paper can be considered fibre. Maybe there are minerals in the dye. The baby swallows. Manna's head hurts. An Eagle and the profile of a Dog Soldier sprawl across the sheet. The title of the event is missing, but the baby has been gracious enough not to eat the date or the location. "The VA ... " Manna reads the date again. Tonight, in downtown Gallup. "It's probably a powwow or something for veterans," she tells the baby, who grasps the flyer. Manna holds if out of her reach. "Hold your horses, little lady. If this is what I think it is, you might not have to eat paper after all. They have fry bread at powwows and we're pretty or pitiful enough to get somebody to give us some. Might even throw in some sweet red Kool-Aid." The baby lunges toward the paper. Manna continues to read. "Mama!" shouts the baby. Manna's eyes find slim letters at the bottom of page. Admission: 2 canned goods. Canned goods. If people gave canned goods, they'd need someone to get them. Manna catches her breath at the promise of pasteurized heaven. "Food!" Manna clasps the flyer. For food, for canned goods, they can walk far enough to hitch a ride in town and the VA. "Canned goods!" Manna drops to her knees in front of the baby. "We are going to get cleaned up and go get our fair share of food, little lady." Inspired, Manna squeezes the small body. "We may even take them a few cans of our own." Manna kisses the baby and heads for the fridge. Manna and the baby know how to wait. They sit patiently beside the road. Manna feels less like a bad example of hitchhiking since they are only doing it to find food. Besides, they are going to a powwow full of veterans, who have to be better role models than the staggering partiers that surrounded the baby earlier. The VA is a good place for the baby. If the flyer fails them, she will leave the baby there. Veterans like babies. TV news always shows them rescuing infants from firefights and carrying toddlers piggyback toward democracy. A veteran may keep the baby or 19 Dawn Karima Pettigrew find someone who can prevent a mission school or Mormon from claiming her tiny soul. Maybe an elderly woman will raise her to replace a daughter she lost years ago. If the flyer lies, if there is no food, Manna will observe the old women, looking for one who dances Southern cloth and laughs at the M.C.'s jokes. "If there is no food, I will give you up," Manna whispers into the baby's ear. "Promise you will not starve." The baby sighs and sucks on the fringe of Manna's dance shawl. Manna has had enough. A struggling mother and child may not halt the sporadic traffic, but unattended Budweiser is another story. Manna leaves a six-pack in the middle of the desolate highway. In minutes, the driver and passenger of a red Ford pickup stop to claim the windfall of apparently deserted beer. When they pull away, they don't notice that Manna and the baby have made themselves small in the bed of the vehicle. When they arrive in the VA parking lot, they have no way of knowing that, every so often, spirits are currency. "These are not canned goods." The woman guarding the door to the VA glares over her glasses. She is odd angles and wrinkles, the colour of newsprint. She thrusts her hands deep into the pockets of her denim dress. "Ma'am?" Manna shifts the baby to her other hip. Her eyes meet the woman's and holds them. After a lifetime of her mother's withering stare, it will take more than a scowl to deter Manna from her pursuit of packaged food. "I said," the woman says sharply, "these are not canned goods." Manna pities the white woman for defending the door instead of enjoying the powwow. "Ma'am," Manna speaks slowly. "These are canned goods. Goods in cans. B-Vitamins, yeast, all pasteurized even." Manna points to the sheet of golden paper on the table, next to a box of creased one-dollar bills and VA information pamphlets. "Your own flyer says two canned goods per person for admission to this powwow. We have six cans here." Manna taps a can in time with beat of the drum inside. "That's six cans in exchange for me and a baby, who really should be one canned good in the first place." Manna waves her own flyer, creating a slight breeze across the baby's face. The baby reaches for the fan-paper, and Manna lets 20 Dawn Karima Pettigrew her have it. "You're almost making a profit here." "This is a sobriety powwow." The woman stretches "sobriety" into a snake of sinister syllables. "Sobriety is practised here." "Well, I can appreciate that, Ma'am. But you see the title of the event is missing from our flyer. I didn't know." Manna Redpaint smiles sweetly. "Both the baby and I are sober." Pursing her lips in disapproval, the gray lady frowns. "Two canned goods or five dollars." Her eyes narrow as she stares at the baby. "Is your daughter eating that paper?" "Oh, God. Honey give that here." Manna envies the baby's goat stomach. She feels cruel, demanding that the baby spit out her only sure source of nourishment. She squeezes the baby's cheeks. The baby continues to chew. "Ma'am, we don't have five dollars. We don't have any dollars. To tell you true, all we have is this beer here and we don't even drink and we're ... " The baby swallows the paper. Manna leans over the table and whispers. "We're hungry." Inside the VA, drums are playing a sneak-up. Manna misses her Cherokee, misses the Ceremonial Grounds, longs for the sight of Thomas Crow in the powwow area. She should never have fled to Gallup to starve, trying to make miracles out of spirits. The baby bites into the paper again. Manna does nothing to stop her. The woman looks at the baby and turns to talk to Manna. "Maybe if you spent your welfare check on food instead of liquor," she pronounces it lick-or, giving the word a self-righteous sound, "you and your daughter would not go hungry enough to eat paper." Manna's face bums. She straightens, raises her chin. "We are hungry, now. We will not always be hungry. But you, will always be narrow-minded and mean." Manna snatches several sheets of paper from the table. She hands them to the baby. Gesturing, the woman opens her mouth in protest. "Blessed is she who gives paper to the poor," Manna tells her. Then she carries the beer and the baby away from the VA. Someone is shouting at Manna. Manna stands straight, ignores the noise, figures it must be the woman, demanding her flyers. Manna crosses the parking lot, heading for the road. The baby 21 -Dawn Karima Pettigrew rings Manna's neck with her chubby arms. "Hey lady," a teenager grabs Manna's upper arm. Red fringe rises and falls as he moves. A grass dancer. He grins at Manna, showing egg-white teeth. "My uncle there, he wants to pay for you two to get in. He heard them give a hard time and he gave them money for you guys, too." The grass dancer points with his lips, motioning toward the VA Manna sees a peanut butter-coloured man sitting in a wheelchair. Pewter hair flows over his shoulders, stopping about a column of coloured ribbons. The teenage grass dancer nods at her. "He ain't no crazy, lady, he's a veteran. Vietnam, but he's okay. What do you want to carry? The beer or the baby?" Manna hands him the beer. "Okay. Come on. Powwow time for you guys after all." "Thank you, God," Manna whispers. She looks up, winks at the sky. When her eyes find the earth again, the man in the wheelchair is waving at her. Manna waves back, promising herself that once she has eaten, she will jingle dance and sidestep wildly, to every veteran's honour song. 22 I Jan Bourdeau Waboose The Trade "Eunice, Eunice," louder this time. "Come into my office this ~~m~" . I looked up from my desk, as did everyone else. I could see his round belly move up and down as he shouted that name. Hi~ big blue eyes peered over the rim of his small dark frames and his fat finger pointed to the back of the classroom. All sh~dents' heads turned and their eyes were on me. But I was not Eunice. My name was not Eunice. "Stand up " he demanded. My cheeks filled with fire. My legs didn't feel lik~ a part of my body, yet I managed to stand and cling to my desk. Words I barely heard, came from my dry throat, "I'm not Eunice. My name's not Eunice." Why do you keep calling me that name? I grew to hate the sound of it, I asked the question to myself. "What's that?" His voice echoed off the chalkboards. Speak up girl, make yourself clear and stand up straight<' . I couldn't stand up straight and I couldn't look mto his eyes, so I looked past the staring students, past the scary principal and out the window. My eyes rested on a small brown bird flapping its wings preparing to fly away. , ,, "Eunice ... pay attention, speak when y?u re sp?,ken to. . "It's not Eunice." I heard my own voice say. My name is Janice." . He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie that was squeezmg his red neck. "Oh so it is. It doesn't change things though. Into my office now .. : Janice." He dragged my name on his tongue. "What you have done is serious young lady, and you will pay the penal~." His fat finger pointed to the door of the roo°'. that held !h: thick, black leather strap. My own fingers were pullmg and twisting the sleeve of my woollen sweater. The whole sweater was sudde1:ly itchy and prickly all over. I was sweating, my mouth was hke sandpaper and I was scared. But I followed him into_ the ~oom where only the bad kids went, and the kids that were JUSt dif_ferent. I was different, I was Indian and now I was a bad Indian. I could feel all eyes searing my back. 11 23 Jan Bourdeau Waboose "She did it. Kathy saw her. She's awful. She did it." I heard the whispers. Then the snickers. "Eunice, Eunice, Eunice." It was like hissing. She's worse than those Pettch girls." The words felt hotter and more prickly than my woollen sweater. I bit my bottom lip to stop it from quivering and my teeth held it there until it almost bled. The only ones not snickering were the Pettch girls. The heavy door opened and closed slamming behind me. The silence in his office was pressing against my ears and making them hurt. He motioned for me to sit in the large black leather chair. I sat, not moving. My feet hung in mid-air, they could not reach the floor. I wished the chair would swallow me entirely. I watched him pull open his desk drawer and place the thick black piece of leather on top of the desk. Then he removed his jacket, undid his shiny silver cuff links and rolled up his shirt sleeves. He did not look at me when he spoke. We both watched his fat hairy fingers move up and down the black leather strip. "Eunice ... er, Janice. We don't tolerate thievery in this school. I can call the truant officer in, or we can deal with it here, now. You will be taught your lesson. Stealing is a crime." He rubbed the strap some more. "Indian kids need proper direction, if they are to make something of themselves. Now, I want to explain this, and don't try to lie about this. Kathy Anderson saw you hiding these things. These have been stolen from the students here and there are other things missing, too." He opened his desk again and placed a gold pen, two red barrettes, a striped ball and a blue wallet with a pink dancing lady on it in front of me. "Now why don't you start with the right words to explain why this stuff was found in your desk!" His words swirled in a fog making me dizzy. I clutched my stomach. I felt like I was going to throw up. Thief I am a thief What is he saying to me and why is the pen, the barrettes, ball and the wallet on his desk? They were given to me, in fair trade ... and then I thought of the Pettch girls. The Pettch girls. The poor, dirty Pettch girls. No one liked them. No one played with them. They smelled and their clothes were dirty. Their short red hair was tangled and had cooties more than once. Everyone stayed away from the Pettch girls. Of course, 24 Jan Bourdeau Waboose everyone stayed away from me too. But I was Indian, that was different. They were not. But they were poor and had dirty, old clothes. I never played with them and they never played with me. But they hung around the school yard together. They had each other. Some days I watched them laughing and sharing jokes, they didn't need anyone or anything. Until last week. The younger Pettch girl with the dark brown tights, that were so small the crotch hung to her knees, approached me at lunchtime. I wondered how she could walk in those tights. She smelled of stale urine and when she smiled her teeth were yellow. She stood there eyeing my lunch. Though my own clothes were hand-me-downs, and my family was poor, I always had good lunches. Moose meat on bannock, corn soup and fresh berries. The girl kept her hands behind her back when she spoke, "Wanna trade?" Trade? Trade for what? I thought. I have nothing to trade. "Wanna trade?" she said again. "A sandwich for this shiny gold pen." She produced a pen from behind her back. The pen was nice, but I wanted my sandwich. I was embarrassed and so was she. And I was hungry, so was she. "My sis and I are going to share your sandwich," she mumbled. I shuffled my moose bannock, she shuffled her too tight shoes on her feet. I had my pride, I didn't want her pen. But she had her pride too. I took the pen, she took my sandwich. The next day at lunch, her bigger sister approached me. She smelled of old underarms and her small blouse was squeezing her breasts, too large for her age. "Wanna trade?" She held out two red barrettes and an Indian rubber, striped ball. The barrettes were nice, the ball I could play with a lot. I wanted my sandwich, but I took the ball and the barrettes. She took the sandwich and my soup. I put the things in my desk. Tomorrow I would keep my own lunch, maybe put in an extra apple or orange and just give it to them. They never approached me to trade again. In fact, they were both missing from school for days. I was relieved and curious about their absence all the same time. I wrote with the gold pen, played with the Indian rubber ball and kept the barrettes for a spe25 Jan Bourdeau Waboose cial occasion. They were nice things to own. But I didn't want to trade anymore. Then they were back again. This time both Pettch girls stood before me. They had bruises on them. The bigger girl had bruises on her cheek and the younger one had them on her bare arms. "Wanna trade, your whole lunch this time?" The younger girl pulled something from her waist and out of her tights. It was the most beautiful blue wallet I had ever seen. The dancer on the wallet was dressed in pink and had ribbons and flowers in her hair. She wore pink satin shoes. I liked the wallet, I could eat when I got home. The Pettch girls probably couldn't. I gave them my whole lunch. I put the wallet in my desk. "Eunice, ... Janice, whatever ... " He slammed his fist onto the desk. "Explain these stolen items now. I will not wait a moment longer with your stubborn, insolent attitude. You Indian kids act like you're quiet and shy, but don't think I haven't heard the loud whooping sounds you kids make, when you want to." He rolled up his sleeves higher and picked up the black leather strap. "Last chance to confess what you have done wrong, and if you do, maybe we will make you sit in front of the class instead of this." He shook the strap at me. I stared without emotion. But disbelief and dread filled my insides. In front of the class. Sit in front of the class. Or the thick black belt ... should I tell him my story. My bottom lip started to bleed from my teeth marks. Only bad kids and different kids were sent to his office. Most of them came out crying or about to. He wouldn't believe that I didn't steal those things. And nobody liked the Pettch girls, and they already had bruises. It wouldn't change anything, no one would still play with me, even if I didn't steal those things. He stood up. He looked like he had grown. "You are defying me." He was mad. "Sitting in front of the class is too easy for you. This will not be tolerated. I will see to it that it is stopped. You Indian kids can be nothing but trouble." "Eunice ... stand up. Hold out your hand." I had to grab onto the arm of the large leather chair to steady myself. I held out my hand. "My name's not Eunice. It's Janice," I said, over the sound of the smacking black leather. 26 Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm turtle island holocaust we have walked on wet stones to cross a river and not fallen we have lived on stone ice and swamp waiting for your systems to return our stolen land and been kicked into the stinking gutters of your courts for offences that have never matched the atrocities you have committed on us and this earth under the banner of civilization we have been herded into freight trains to nowhere under the seals of your absent kings and queens then been dumped dying in snowbanks covered only by the thin blanket of your diseased integrity and our will to survive we have been stripped naked in your places of worship and walked away to watch the sun rise over sacred mountains we have had our children stolen so they could be taught to love jesus white skin the missionary position and housework we have lived in the shadow of military invasion and thrown eggs against your tanks we have suffered your rocks bullets screwdrivers we have sung our mourning songs to young boys with thin necks stretched under leafless trees their half dressed bodies frozen on roadsides their mouths wrapped around gun barrels young girls with arms like pin cushions convulsing in empty buildings slicing at their memories with razor blades or eating pills by the bottle and never waking we have found our babies With brains splattered 27 Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm hearts stopped dead bodies burnt to ash Inside the House, a Dream we have endured all this and more Mud-crusted boots slump by the back steps. so spare us the burden of your guilt take your useless pity your pink-cheeked impotent shame and drown it in the mercury poisoned water of our rivers The cold hand of a north wind slams the door shut behind me. Inside, the walls are damp with steam and breath. I pull off my jacket and toque. The warm air leaves beads of sweat and moisture on my skin. My hair is as slick as a newbom's. take it still suckling from your breast and throw it naked on a dark silent slab of concrete slice its tongue in two cut its hair with dull scissors then with european precision peel its skin from its shivering body and make a lampshade to shield us from your thoughts Joan. She stands before me, looking like an elastic stretched to the breaking point. A snake coils around my throat. Another around my chest. My sister doesn't ask if there are partridge or duck hanging in a burlap sack outside. She doesn't ask if there will be venison stew or roast bear or moose nose. She doesn't ask. She doesn't ask. Anything. A rat is crawling under my skin. We stand staring at each other. Time coils and springs, screams, and is silent. ... it's Kayly ... My niece. These eyes strain in their sockets reaching for Joan's face. The whole world tilts towards her and holds its breath. I tie myself to a tree and wait. Her breath is thin and slow like a high pitched note. She pushes the words out on top of it. ...she was raped ... A snake pit opens in my belly. I puke up hissing questions. Who was it? WHO? a teacher, her teacher ... Where is he? Hunting rifle is jerked up. Shells, pocket. Shells. Shells. 28 29 Bonita Marie Voght Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm Passing Seasons The school? My feet punch the groaning floor. In the living room I twist like a bear in a leg trap. A gale wind is howling. Waves are sent crashing into rocks, slamming onto the shore. In the liv- ing room my voice is an owl screeching his name. My sister has lost her eyelids. Her lower jaw is unhinged. I WILL KILL HIM. The gun barrel crosses my chest like a promise. The wind strips limbs from trees, picks up stones and smashes them to the ground, throws birds into walls, pulls boats down. I punch a hole in the floor with my heel. Punch the floor. Punch the floor. Kayly. Kayly is shivering in the doorway. Everything about her is a question. Kayly? The rifle disappears, turns to flesh and bone, becomes an arm held out to her. Two arms that enfold her. We cry and she folds into me, like a fetus into a fetus. I hug her to my belly. Put my arm over her like a shelter, my arm and shoulder forming a rooftop to hold out the rain. My ribs, my flesh and bone and skin form walls to hold out the wind. My childmind remembers The memory grows like a tree he planted. Running from memory. Memory of the evil of fathers only visited on by daughters. Memories of stolen innocence. You are the blackhole of fault living in the lower intestinals of a gutter rat. You built these chains of hate and put me on the rim of a volcano. Now I look outside into the darkness of midnight, I think of him. Walls of fear surround my heart. So I sit alone in the attic of my mind. But ... Deep inside He can't see inside There is something inside Very far inside Just a little light Almost a smile. Snakes can't cross the threshold. Safe inside, 30 we hold each other, singing lullabies. 31 Nikki Maier Bonita Marie Voght As the season's change so have the memories. Once an open, crusted, puss wound, it has now healed into a fine, thin scar characterization ofme. The real me that he can't reach. As the sun shines, the birds go on singing, and the cherry tree blossoms my smile grows with passing seasons. sun baked grass 1 rolling around in the grassy playing fields eyes squinting cheeks flushed feet so hot and every one hugging trying to catch breath after capturing soccer game glories walking home with Jenn my little sister and hanging out with mom in the shadiness of the big tree outside the window "one hour till supper" mom says so Jenn and I scramble outside running to the park to play ~ in the sun and the grass so hot it is steaming grass dark green fresh cut damp and sticking to my legs as we run in the grass 32 33 Nikki Maier Nikki Maier that smells so strong it gives me a headache later mom whistles louder than eagles shriek and off we go back home 2 thirteen is a hard time to be alive especially if it is winter and you're the co-child of an alcoholic mother on welfare as an older child please be sure to practice motherhood on Jennie make Kraft dinner or find 30 different ways to cook potatoes tuck her in read her stories about a girl named Ramona & her older sister & their two parents read her stories that send her to sleep wake Jenn up and pour her com flakes do her hair walk her to school go to high school skip school steal shoes get caught given 25 community hours at the SPCA taking kittens 34 to the truck to be put down go home sidestep puke take Jennie to the park away from smoke away from beer away from taunting words & stinky breath to the park where suddenly grass smells so sweet 3 moving from town to city to town on my own wondrin' if any place where I pay the rent will ever feel like home instead of feeling so temporary so wandering nomadic will I ever stop feeling like I abandoned Jenn? will I ever feel needed like I did back home? thinking now it's funny how I don't feel so deep pressed in my chest when I can smell that sun baked grass 35 William George William George this generation dream the old dream dream back the stories the language the songs and add new dreams centuries ago contagion blew from the ocean and spread across this land the community bled many generations bled silently tap half a drumbeat sick and during the trek many never made it the whole way those remembered heartbeats pulse still survival has changed because it was forced to change walk the path this generation this our breath to breathe we live-move through this world . . . . . in and our vital participation will contribute to mamta1mng this chang g landscape this generation bleeds and gaping wounds within them are pieces felt m i s s i n g or out of reach them neither present after battle (theirs) nor known to have been killed or wounded or captured injury is this deliberate blow for ad just ment transition transportation is change possible for the people for the city for the world? at this time? in the foreground in the forest grows in the mountains grows in the city grows dissension drips trickles oozes seeps percolates soaks immovable massive boulders are levelled to dust in the late 20th century this generation dis-arranged dislodged dislocated leaves one distanced from the many indian here can i be indian anywhere? MOVE-MENT move a movement has taken place and continues that contagion's force has diminished and the community's resiliency is the strength of the people 36 37 Confronting Chris Bose Me again Hello there its me again I come before you now in a vision a dream this is a warning I am warning you that I am coming and this time I will not be content to stay in pemmican/ salmon-soaked stories in teepees wigwams winter lodges and longhouses THIS MEANS WAR and this means that I will invade you and your life and everything you hold close to your heart like never before but 41 Chris Bose don't take this all so seriously because I am joking I am the trickster I come before you now in the shape of a dream consider yourself lucky this time because I could come before you in the shape of coyote a raven a crow or even an owl but you wouldn't want to see me then I would scare you to death and I know you wouldn't like that so beware I am coming and I will take you this is war these are the lines this is how it will end. 42 Sharon Proulx-Turner Excerpt From Work in Progress What the Auntys Say I there's a fiction between us and them is what the auntys say at their schools they call it history headlines in their news what they call clearcut all those mountain hiking boots lined up in a row hup-two-three-four hup-two-three-four and feeling like part of the group sing long and loud in three-part harmony a logging we will go a logging we will go high-ho the dairy-oh a logging we will go what they call forest management reforestation signs along the roads crews of planters pioneers macho whitetown's last frontier payment by the tree keeps the kid in university holy crow and sweat upon the brow of empty eyes and designer shorts which makes it worth the work there's ebb and then there's flow singing long and singing glee there were trees trees as big as knobby knees in the store in the store there were trees trees as big as knobby knees in the corner master store 43 Sharon Proulx-Turner Sharon Proulx-Turner II that round brown face under a fresh foundation put there by her foster mother's hand the hand that beats her yes we've been abused says her foster mothers the hand that ties those dead chickens around her neck leaves them there for days as women we experience sexism the hand that feeds her slop with bluegreen spots just before the hogs get the rest as we get older we encounter ageism the hand that controls electric fences keeps her in the yard white picket fences face the road dupes the neighbours dupes them all yes says her foster mothers yes we develop feelings for all the little heathens we raise up for extended periods of time rifle cocked and aims right for her godless little heart that's just before she chases the little slut out the front door and down to the welfare office we all have to be careful with our time around here says that woman at the welfare office we all have to make room for the other poor children children much worse off than you my dear ~ow go on b~ck there and behave yourself or we'll have to put you m the zoo with the other animals that's when that old lady remembers coils torso arms her hands touches echo hollow sorrow howls the day hears the wind the air the water odors warm of sun the cool of the trees the real of the round brown ground the bugs the birds the animals remembers feels the love their faces the gifts from the grandmothers and grandfathers her mommys daddys grannys grampas auntys uncles cousins thighs hips arms their faces their faces who heal their faces who give her life right at the level of life 44 III this is around the time the folks in whitetown invite the old lady to speak about her metis ancestors down at the writer's retreat she tells them she's seen family friends elders babes murdered and mutilated seen ravenblack brown braids hanging from a white picket fence different sizes textures thickness styles and no one speaks to her after that three days of silence and then vegetarian breakfast in bed served by one of her teachers from the senior high the one who teaches the old lady how to make a mug whispers it's so wonderful that you have so much love to give after all you've been through no eye contact that teacher pulls out inspects her mechanical pencil removes the eraser puts back the eraser removes it lifts her eyes looks looks down at the old lady whispers you have to break them in slowly smiles you have to break them in gently I am many things says the old lady happy and beautiful with braided hair is what the auntys say taking all that dreamtime and giving so much back lights a fire at first light lights a fire and thanks our creator for this new day this new life right at the level of life 45 Dawn Maracle Mr. Season Th~ cottage ~mells musty, even though we arrived four days ago. Like all I1:dian summer days at the cottage, it has been long and full of excitement. My seven year old sister, Kim, is jumping on ~y stomach. She yells, "It's time! Get dressed, or you're going to miss Mr. Season!" In a blurred state, I put my feet on the cold, dusty floor and stan~ to put_ on 1:1Y fourth-time-hand-me-down shorts. Kim grabs a white t-shirt, nps off my pyjama top, and prepares to thrust the clean garment over my head. "Hands up!" she yells. Then she is running out the door and I am yelling after her, "wait for me ... ple-e-e-ease!" Southward we run, toward West Lake. It is a small but famous l~ke attached to Lake Ontario in Prince Edward County, just outside of the town of Wellington. My Great Aunt and Uncle, Betty and Hank Young, own three cottages next to their house. The great yard in between their home and the cottages is sectioned off. There are two horseshoe pits, each with four horseshoes. Next is a field where us kids used to dance in, play frisbee and baseball. The waterfront is next, with a skinny beach and a long dock at the southernmost end of the property. We are headed to the dock, as Mr. Season only comes out at this time in the morning. Kim and I sneak slowly to the end of the dock and dangle our dirty feet over the edge. We quietly wait. "Sssshhhhh," she says. It seems like hours pass by. I notice a crab crawling toward the dock near the beach, but I dare not visit him-Mr. Season is surely expecting our attendance this morning. Suddenly the dock shakes, and Kim and I, startled, look at each other and then toward the beach. "Oh," she says with a sigh of relief. "Its only those two." It is my brothers trying to sneak up on us. Craig is eleven, and Brett is nine. "