FNH magazine issue #8 by FNH magazine

Lillian McGregor

4. CHANGING THE LANDSCAPE:

EDITOR: Cherie Dimaline DESIGN & ART DIRECTION: David Shilling MAAIINGAN Productions www.maaiingan.com

6. GATHERING GROWS AGAIN:

8. WATER WARRIOR: U of T student/community dynamo Sylvia Plain walks softly and speaks volumes with her actions, logging many miles for the sake of the water.

10. IT’S TIME YOU GROW A GARDEN:

Alumnus John Croutch revisits the FNH Garden and reminds us that food is a gift for the body and the spirit.

15. MEMORIZE THIS:

ALSO:

An excerpt from Writer-in-Residence Cherie Dimaline’s newest book and a dedication to an irreplaceable leader.

Traditional Teacher and renowned author Lee Maracle talksabout the script we carry within our bodies, the original instructions for a healthy life. All we have to do is remember them.

ON THE COVERS: We got Wa(u)bed! Photographer Robin Sutherland captured two of this year’s biggest draws to the Indigenous Writers Gathering outside First Nations House. (FRONT) Hot off his CBC 8th Fire series, musician and journalist Wab Kinew spoke about sharing our old stories

in new ways. (BACK) Journalist and author Waubgeshig Rice, who’s first book Midnight Sweatlodge just took home a gold medal from the Independent Publisher’s Book Awards, shared new fiction and good advice at the gathering.

ADVISORY COUNCIL: Lee Maracle Daniel Heath Justice DIRECTOR: Jonathan Hamilton-Diabo

PhD candidate and FNH Writing Instructor Heather Dorries brings an Indigenous lens to the work of urban planing.

The 4th annual Indigenous Writers’ Gathering brought together journalism, music, comedy and visual poetry to the delight of hundreds of fans - new and old.

FNH MAGAZINE

VOLUME 1 • ISSUE 8

CONTRIBUTORS: Heather Dorries Sylvia Plain Lee Maracle John Croutch Cherie Dimaline

U of T mourns the loss of Lillian McGregor, former Elder-in-Residence at U of T’s First Nations House

PHOTOGRAPHY: Robin Sutherland David Shilling

Toronto’s Aboriginal community lost a great citizen last week, and the University of Toronto lost a loyal friend with the passing of Lillian McGregor, former Elder-in-Residence at First Nations House (FNH).

EDITORIAL: Jessicka Loduca Brendan Martyn

McGregor, from Whitefish River on Birch Island, was a well-respected member of Toronto’s Aboriginal community for more than 60 years. Before coming to First Nations House, McGregor was a registered nurse in Toronto and a proud mother and grandmother. In 1994, she was invited by the late Rodney Bobiwash, Director of FNH, to serve as the Elder-in-Residence. After retiring in 2008, McGregor remained very much a part of the Aboriginal community at the University of Toronto, returning as a Visiting Elder. In 2002, she received an Honorary Doctorate from the University, and last year she was honoured at an unveiling of a trophy for the Dr. Lillian McGregor Aboriginal Award of Excellence. Every year, Aboriginal students apply for the Lillian McGregor Award, visit in-house Elders and Traditional Teachers, and learn about their peoples and cultures through programs in a space which owes its beginnings to people like McGregor. “Lillian was an important member of the university community while at First Nations House,” said Jonathan Hamilton-Diabo, Director, Office of Aboriginal Student Services, First Nations House. “As the Elder, she relentlessly emphasized the importance of education. She also possessed an incredible knowledge of traditions and language, which she was always ready to share, but the traits that stood out were her sense of humour, her caring for the students and above all, her dedication and love for her community and family. At First Nations House, although ‘retired’ since 2008, her presence never left us.” One student anonymously wrote in 2002 that McGregor has “been the heartbeat and lifeblood of First Nations House since its inception.” Anita Benedict, a former Director of First

Nations House, wrote that “Lillian McGregor has served the Aboriginal community at the University of Toronto with unstinting generosity of spirit and unfailing diligence.” McGregor was a very visible member of the Aboriginal community and participated in many committees and boards across the city, including the Elder Council at the Native Canadian Centre of Toronto, Nishnawbe Homes Incorporated, and Native Child and Family Services. She served as an Elder for Ontario’s Aboriginal Healing and Wellness Strategy and participated at many civic events over the years, including Human Rights Day celebrations and Toronto’s Olympic bid. She was also selected as a Torch Carrier for the Winter Olympics in Vancouver. McGregor received many awards, including the National Aboriginal Achievement Award for Lifetime Achievement, the Order of Ontario, the William P. Hubbard Award for Race Relations and the Leading Women Building Communities Award (given by the Province of Ontario). McGregor once said about her experience at U of T, “My desire to preserve our Aboriginal culture, tradition, and spirituality became a well-known attribute; and I was soon busier than I had ever been in the everyday workforce. I welcomed the opportunity to assist my own Native community.” McGregor is survived by her three sons, four grandchildren and one great grandchild. She will be greatly missed. The U of T flag was lowered to half-mast at all three campuses on Monday, April 23rd, the day of Lillian McGregor’s funeral. Author: Anjum Nayyar Originally posted to U of T News www.news.utoronto.ca/ memoriam-lillian-mcgregor Reprinted with permission.

WEBMASTER: MAAIINGAN Productions www.maaiingan.com PRINTER: LM Print Solutions, lmprintsolutions@rogers.com Special thanks to MTCU for supporting FNH Magazine VOLUME 1, Issue 8 FNH accepts no responsibility for unsolicited materials. FNH assumes no responsibility for content or advertisements. Submissions: unsolicited manuscripts will not be returned unless accompanied by a stamped return envelope. To request your copy of FNH Magazine, contact us at: www.fnhmagazine.com. SUBMISSIONS: If you are interested in writing for FNH magazine, please contact us at: editor@fnhmagazine.com

Photo: Robin Sutherland

CONTENTS

In Memoriam:

Published by First Nations House, University of Toronto, 563 Spadina Avenue, Toronto ON, M5S 2J7

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g n i n n a l P e g n a h C for Heather Dorries on how city planning can pave the way for anti-racism practices Decisions made by cities and city planners have the potential to significantly affect Indigenous communities. There are numerous stories across Canada of how planning decisions and projects related to urban growth and expansion have damaged Indigenous burial grounds, destroyed sites of ecological and spiritual importance, and jeopardized land claims. Moreover, urban planning decisions, when made and enacted without input from local Indigenous communities, can show contempt for the authority of these communities to make decisions, particularly where their own lands and futures are concerned.

“Well, if you can figure out what the hell those people want, you’ll get your own office.” I think at the time I failed to fully grasp the racism implicit in this response. Unfortunately, I think this view is one commonly held by both planners and the public. This is the idea that the demands and interests of Aboriginal peoples are so unreasonable and so illogical they are beyond comprehension.

For example, in 1990, 3500 troops were deployed at Oka, Quebec to end a Mohawk land reclamation.

...most planners, if they

This military intervention was at

think about how plan-

the time the largest deployment

ning affects Indigenous

of the Canadian military since the

people at all, view

Korean War.

Indigenous people as a problem which must be solved...

Yet, most planners, if they think about how planning affects Indigenous people at all, view Indigenous people as a problem which must be solved, and point to conflict between Indigenous and non-Indigenous people as evidence of this problem.

In my research, I try to turn this view upside down, by asking different questions. The questions that motivate my research are: How does planning pose a problem for Aboriginal people? How does planning disrupt the sovereignty of First Nations? In what ways is the decision-making authority of First Nations undermined in planning processes? Finally, what alternative approaches to planning are suggested by Indigenous law and knowledge?

This became clear to me during my time as a planning student at the University of Toronto. After my first year of studying for a master’s degree in planning, I won an award that had been endowed by an alumnus of the program. As a result I had the opportunity to meet the alumnus, who was eager to hear about my interests in planning.

In concrete terms, this means that I focus on the political and legal frameworks that shape planning processes in Canada. More specifically, the purpose of my research is to examine the role of planning in securing and normalizing Canada’s sovereignty claims in the face of competing Indigenous sovereignty claims.

Many of the major flashpoints in Canadian-Aboriginal relations have been precipitated by municipal planning decisions. These events are symptomatic of several hundred years of conflict and failed negotiations between the Aboriginal people and the Crown over the use of and access to lands in traditional territories of Aboriginal peoples. For example, in 1990, 3500 troops were deployed at Oka, Quebec to end a Mohawk land reclamation. This military intervention was at the time the largest deployment of the Canadian military since the Korean War. This event was cast by the media and politicians as civil disobedience, and as a threat to Canadian security, as demonstrated by the military presence. What was not at the forefront of discussion was the fact that this event was the result of a decision taken at the municipal level to turn sacred Mohawk land into a 9-hole golf course. Planning is not usually understood in terms of its capacity to mediate sovereignty claims. This may be because in most parts of Canada, responsibility for local land use planning is delegated from the provincial government to municipal or local governments, and is therefore seen as a function of local government that has nothing to do with the broader activities of the nation state. Planning is an activity of local governance that is largely focused on regulating land use. It relies on concepts such as property and jurisdiction. One of the findings of my research is that planning operationalizes knowledge about Aboriginal rights in the assumptions it makes about concepts like property and jurisdiction. I argue that these concepts serve as a cipher for sovereignty in the context of local planning regimes. Planning is a site where competing sovereignty assertions become legible. In these conflicts, at Caledonia or Oka, which are about control over land-use and ownership, what is really at stake is the status of competing sovereignty claims. Professors Bonita Lawrence and Enakshi Dua have argued that if Indigenous sovereignty is the reality that is on the table, then anti-racist theorists must begin to talk about how they are going to place anti-racist agendas within the context of sovereignty and restoration of land. For planning, this means that rather than trying to bring theories of planning to bear on Indigenous politics, Indigenous politics must instead bear on planning practices.

I told him about the research I was working on for my master’s thesis. This research examined the conflict in Caledonia, which was ongoing at the time. I was examining the role planning decisions had played in creating that conflict, and was learning more about the status of First Nations in the planning process. When I finished explaining, he looked at me, somewhat bewildered, and said,

FNH Magazine JUNE 2012 | 4

5 | JUNE 2012 FNH Magazine

Indigenous Writers Gathering THE 2012

BURSTING AT THE SEAMS T

he 2012 Indigenous Writers’ Gathering got off to a great start when an over-capacity crowd showed up to hear CBC’s finest speak. Waubgeshig Rice and Wab Kinew along with Muskrat Magazine publisher Rebeka Tabobondung, spoke about the importance of preserving traditions and stories in an electronic age. “This is how it’s supposed to be. People should be excited about Indigenous writing, because it’s exciting,” said First Nations House Traditional Teacher Lee Maracle, a repeat guest of the Gathering. The annual event, now entering its fifth year, continues to draw big numbers and even bigger talents to the University of Toronto. More supporters than ever are signing on to be part of what has become one of the year’s brightest highlights for both the urban Aboriginal and the literary communities. Supporters of the 2012 Gathering included the Ontario Arts Council; Muskrat Magazine; the Canada Council for the Arts; and the Ministry of Training, Colleges and Universities. Beyond the fiscal contributions, both arts councils participated in a grants workshop alongside U of T alumni and grants recipient Christine McFarlane who spoke about the importance of being informed in order to benefit from the myriad of amazing programs that are out there.

Spread: Robin Sutherland

“I myself learned about writers’ grants at the 2011 event, and was then able to secure a residency grant through the Canada Council for the Arts,” she said. “It was a great opportunity to work with some highly esteemed Aboriginal writers. So I decided to speak at the 2012 gathering to share my experience. I hope that other emerging writers will have similar life-changing results.” Hundreds of fans showed up to see and hear the hilarious offerings of Ryan RedCorn and Dallas Goldtooth, two members of the American troupe, the 1491s. RedCorn also presented some of his more serious, politically charged short films like Geronimo E-KIA, a video poem that takes to task the code name of the Obama-strategized killing of terrorist, Osama bin Laden. Each event was well attended with a full house for both the open-mic night, a new component added to the Gathering at the suggestion of students, and at the annual gala reading event held at the Native Canadian Centre where it was standing room only. Writers Bren and Amberlee Kolson, Daniel Justice and Lee Maracle joined Rice and Kinew in spirited readings emceed by the 1491s’ Dallas Goldtooth who kept the

audience limber and engaged with exercise, jokes and musical interludes between sets. Special guest Kiera Kolson performed a special welcome song from the Dene Nation at the start of her mother, Bren’s reading. Check out www.fnhouse.blogspot.com for information on upcoming literary events including the much anticipated 5th Annual Indigenous Writers’ Gathering. And don’t forget to visit the 1491s’ on their website, www.1491s.com.

eagle staff, standing in support of the women, offering help where they could when the women had work to do. We started out with four main walkers, but every day we’d be joined by local people in the towns we passed, or other First Nations people who heard about the walk and wanted to share their stories and songs about the water. It was exciting to meet the First Nations people on whose territory we were walking. It felt great to properly acknowledge the water of their lands and to hear of its history and the importance of that water to the medicines and food. Everyone who joined had a unique story to share and brought new teachings. They also connected water in relation to the suffering that most First Nations communities faced across Turtle Island, whether it be pollution, damming, or the loss of ancient falls. It was such a beautiful time to be walking like that, in the middle of the night when the rest of the world was asleep. You could hear animals hunting and roaming the lands then. The world slowed down and there wasn’t time to care about the news or the time, it was about just living in the moments of the day. The animals watched curiously as we passed by, singing songs and running around in excitement. It was a good feeling to know that nature and the animals were responding to the work we were doing for our Mother, the Earth.

I Will Do It For The

WA T E R N’guh Izhi chigay, Nibi Onji It was the late in the evening and I was studying for my final exams when the call came to me - a voice telling me to join the water walk.

know about my journey. Many students, staff and faculty at First Nations House, the Centre for Aboriginal Initiative and in the Toronto Aboriginal community, supported me.

Before the call, I hadn’t heard much about the walk other than getting the opportunity to meet Josephine Mandamin, the founder of the Mother Earth Water Walk a few months back. I responded by contacting an organizer to see what I could do to contribute. It turns out they were in need of a walker in the western direction, someone who could commit to three weeks. I was days away from finishing my exams, so I was glad to accept the opportunity. I didn’t know what to expect, but I was eager to learn more about the water walk and of women’s roles in protecting the sacred element of life. The next day I began to fundraise at school, letting people

On April 9th I flew out to Olympia, Washington to join Josephine in launching the west direction walk from Squaxin Island Nation. The next morning we were greeted by the local people of Squaxin, where we picked up the salt water of the Puget Sound with our copper pail and began our journey east towards Bad River, Wisconsin.

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Our days began at 3:30 am. We walked for 12 hours a day, singing, praying and offering our asemaa to the water, acknowledging the important role that it plays in birth, growth, and life. The women were joined by the men who carried the

Author Photo: Christine MacFarlane

First year student Sylvia Plain takes giant steps towards becoming an advocate and a leader.

By walking, I was able to see Washington state completely from the west to the east. From the lush green forests and moss of the coast, to the enormous cedar trees, glistening lakes, rivers and streams, up and over the mountains, through the snow of the pass, down into the desert of Yakima where the red hills and plateaus are almost as big as mountains, and on into the rolling hills of the east. I remember as we passed through the panhandle of Idaho, the enormous, sparkling lakes and green everywhere. As we reached the Montana border, we were met by snow again. Montana was a special place for me because the Flathead Lake is a fresh water lake and it reminded me of home. It was a very silent, yet stunning state filled with many mountains and unique geographical features that brought amazing positive energy. We walked up and over the glacier mountains where we were met by a blizzard at the summit. Approaching Chief Mountain, the sweetgrass hills and warm, yellow plains beyond the Blackfoot territory began.”

Saulteaux, Lenape, Cree, Pottawatomi, and Anishinaabe, all walked together for the waters of their home territories and shared stories, forming new relations, and encouraging returned visits. Beyond the artificial lines of an international border and states, lies an untouched abundance of knowledge, trade, friendship, self-determination and nationhood. When my three weeks were up, I came back to Toronto to rest and join another water walk in London, Ontario that was organized by high school students at Saunders Secondary School to acknowledge the Thames River. Two weeks later I returned back to the water walk outside of Sudbury and joined the east direction. From there I walked to Marquette, Michigan and went on to Minnesota to rejoin the west direction and the walkers from the west coast. By then the north, west and south directions came together and we walked toward Bad River, Wisconsin. I will never forget that beautiful day when the four salt waters came together and how vibrant and beautiful the energy was. We were greeted and joined by hundreds of people at Bad River where we gathered to celebrate the beautiful work we had done in acknowledging Mother Earth. We all moved toward the beach and combined the waters to take out to Lake Superior where we sent the healing salt waters to travel for 365 days into the rest of the Great Lakes and share our prayers that came from all across Turtle Island. I’m very proud and honoured to have been able to walk beside my Nokomis, see her do her work and to learn from her. It was a good feeling to connect with the veins of Mother Earth and to speak with her as my ancestors had done before. I had never felt so alive than when I shared those moments with my relatives across Turtle Island. Most importantly, I have never been so humbled to walk for the protection of the future generations and the younger ones that walk behind me, because it was the ones that walked before me that showed me the cycle of life and to live for tomorrow. Miigwech, Anangoons Sylvia Plain

Along the way we had formed great relations with the people and the many tribes who met us to be a part of this great North American walk. What was apparent to me in my three weeks in the west was that it was becoming more than a water walk; it was bringing nations together that hadn’t joined for generations. We were reinstating traditional protocols, resurging the old ways of friendship and nationhood. The Squaxin, Clatsop, Wasco, Paiute, Umatilla, Yakima, Kalispell, Schitus’umsh, Spokane, Salish, Kootenai, Blackfoot, Metis,

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know what their thoughts were, I came to appreciate that non-Native people viewed the garden from a wholly different perspective than Native people. It led me to think of my own dualism and how people perceive me. As the son of an Anishinaabe mother and a German-Canadian father, I recognized from a very early age that people put me in either one box or the other. It was disturbing to me to learn that how I was treated depended to a great degree on whether I was viewed through the knowledge of my relationship to my mother or the knowledge of my relationship to my father. This was confirmed numerous times at student/teacher meetings depending on which parent I went with and through comments about my mother from kids at school. This led me to question not only my identity, but to consider choosing one over the other in hopes of finding a place of comfort in the world. Hugh Brody, in his fascinating book, Maps and Dreams has some thoughts on why Indigenous people are viewed the way they are. A seminal moment to Brody was the 1550 Valladolid debate between Las Casas, a monk who lived amongst the Indians of South America and Sepulveda, a monk living in Spain who never set foot in South America. The debate centered on the simple premise of whether the Indians of South America lived a way of life worthy of respect. Las Casas believed they did; Sepulveda not so much. This argument later evolved to question whether Indians had a system of social or economic order that deserved to be legally or morally respected. The answer is obvious, as remnants of this thinking remain today with the majority of reserve lands still held in trust by the federal government.

Our cultures and traditions must not be viewed in cities as quaint artifacts of the past, nor should those living on reserves be asked to relinquish their homelands because they are viewed as unviable. The physical world in which we find ourselves was not of our making, so our fit has been precarious. Ironically Indigenous people are the only ones who have a worldview consistent with a rightful claim to indigeneity and sovereignty. To me, the garden symbolizes and renews this claim. It is the bridge between the urban world in which I find myself living today and the traditional territories of my mother’s family members and her ancestors. My mom, her family and her ancestors received their traditional lands from the creator and the bounty to sustain them since time immemorial. Kahontake Kitikin, by its very location, on traditional land of the Mississauga of the New Credit, reminds me, and can remind all those who are no longer on their traditional lands, that our relationship is eternal and inalienable. We need to remember how our traditional foods from the land sustained our mental, physical and spiritual wellbeing and give thanks to the creator, the plants and animals because that affirms our rightful place on the land. Winnebago nurse and activist Lorelei Decora says we must renew our spiritual connection with food as a gift from the creator. And activist, author and professor, Taiaiake Alfred states it is clear from both traditional teachings and academic research that we must return to the land and relearn what it is to live as Indigenous people because that is how the Earth and the people have been sustained for thousands of years. I think that there is something about a garden that would please both Decora and Alfred.

Alumnus John Croutch finds a connection in a small piece of land on the St. George campus

Although the St. George campus is now dotted with studentrun community gardens and even a few rooftop ones, not many people realize that this little oasis, created by the Native Students Association and the once-active Gardener’s Collective, was actually one of the first. And while Hart House has loaned the space to the Native Students Association, the

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garden is actually within the territory of the Mississauga of the New Credit. From its layout there is no disputing the space is a garden, but not many know of its importance to the Aboriginal community on campus. The garden is home to indigenous food plants, flowers and herbs and also the sacred medicines of tobacco, sage, sweetgrass and cedar. During certain times throughout the year, you may hear the sound of drums, singing and the sweet aroma of burning sage or sweet grass indicating the commencement of a ceremony or teaching. I was honoured with the responsibility of caring for the garden for several growing seasons. At first I questioned the naming of the garden for it seemed odd and a little redundant its name means ‘Garden-Garden,’ when translated from the Oneida and the Anishinaabe respectively. However, over the years following numerous questions from curious people as to what the garden was used for and my desire to

John Croutch

Keesic Douglas

Wedged between Hart House on the west side, University Avenue on the east, a loading area to the south, and the grounds of Wycliffe College to the north sits a small unassuming plot of land that belies its sanctity. No sign marks its significance, yet it has a name: Kahontake Kitikan. If you visit the site, you will see a fire pit surrounded by a well-worn circular path and numerous flowerbeds in varying stages of growth depending on the time of year.

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galaxy of odd planets spins around Ruby Bloom’s head, slick and regulated as a game of snooker.

The big purple one is Anxiety. It grew in the slipstream of Guilt, a smooth, loud planet with two moons: Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Agoraphobia. The black one is Envy. It’s crusted with ice and solid as tungsten. The pink spotted one, a loud sparkly affair, is Fantasy and it careens wildly about like a ball after the break. There is a shiny amber globe that catches passing light; a small marble named Longing that is the brightest of all the orbs. When Ruby drinks tea it’s through a straw that runs carefully between a paranoid asteroid belt and the constellation Apathy. Her shirts have wide v-necks so they don’t snag celestial bodies while she’s getting dressed. And any boy she’s ever kissed reports mysterious bruises and slight burn marks around their hairline. The galaxy prevents Ruby from getting real sleep and hinders the wearing of hats so she must settle for thin ribbons and barrettes on special occasions. It is this chaotic yet delicately balanced universe stuck fast around her dark head that alienates Ruby from the rest of the world because for maintenance reasons she must remain isolated. The universe didn’t start with a big bang of cosmic proportions; instead it grew out of trauma that occurred in the middle of an otherwise quiet childhood. It began the day Ruby Bloom, age seven and a half, killed her grandfather. Grandfather’s hands were enormous with fingers that could barely bend from their own girth. The day he was to visit, Ruby put on her green gingham dress, the one with the tulips embroidered above the hem. After lunch, a loud station wagon turned at the bottom of her oil-splotched driveway, rattling and shaking like a wringer washer on three legs. It screeched to a stop and Grandpa unfolded himself from the front seat. Beside him the car whinnied and growled into geriatric slumber. He pushed out his barreled chest and pulled his elbows in towards each other across his wide back, stretching out his stiff limbs. A sand-rough sigh climbed up his ribs and dove off his lips and the ribbon tied around Ruby’s head fluttered in the resulting breeze. Grandpa’s hair was silver grey streaked with inky black. He wore it pulled back in an old man ponytail that curled at its thin end despite being pinned straight up top. To Ruby his teeth seemed as big as playing cards. They were oyster-belly white, even though he woke up in the middle of the night to smoke the same way other people got up for a drink or to pee. Even now there was a cigarette clenched between his lips and a deep furrow in his brow. He pushed up the sleeves of his dress shirt and reached into the back seat.

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Grunting, he hauled an awkward metal bundle out the back window, the same window that wouldn’t roll up and had to be duct-taped closed for the winter. She saw flashes of red and chrome before he tucked it behind his capacious back. Pitou swiveled on a worn heel to see his granddaughter in her green dress, leaning up against the garage. She pushed herself off the metal door again and again like a metronome in knee socks. The two regarded each other and Pitou clicked his tongue twice against the larger teeth near the back of his mouth, wiping at the sweat that gathered in his wrinkles from these small movements. Ruby was hardly half his size. Her chin could have rested on top of his silver rodeo buckle if not for the gut that hung over his waistband like a deflating beach ball. Thick brown hair cut by her shaky-handed mother in their small kitchen swung just below her ears, a little lower on the left side than on the right. She was a quiet child with a penchant for tree climbing, and as a result had band-aids crossed like bones on a pirate flag over each of her pale knees covering the angry red tattoos left by old bark and rocky earth. Ruby’s eyes were brown stitched with dark red flashes. Her bowed lips made her look as though she was blowing kisses even when she frowned, as she did now. Pitou thought she looked like her grandmere, a tiny porcelain doll version of the vicious-tongued woman whom the very thought of, even two years after her death, made his legs feel as if they might crumple up and blow away, like dry sand castles on a windy day. When imagining his wife laughing like a pot of thick soup bubbling over, or the way she stashed tissue up her sleeves for the children’s runny noses, his heart contracted, muscles overlapped like fingers on praying hands. Looking at Ruby now in her peculiar little dress, Pitou rubbed at a distant ache in his chest. Ruby loved her grandfather. He was an animated man who cast a giant’s shadow. His hair was slick with pomade and pulled back so tight off his angular face that his forehead shone like the hockey rink after the Zamboni’s slow parade. He wore wide red suspenders and shiny black shoes, even on Saturdays. His skin reminded her of the brown paper bags her mother brought the groceries home in. When he picked her up, she’d nestle in the crook of one arm, still ropey with muscle carved from years of shoveling rock, first at the mine and later at the quarry. She liked the way his cheeks wrinkled up when he smiled real big, like an unmade bed still warm with slumber. She loved the way his milky eyes caught the sun like the reflectors on her tricycle. His hair reminded her of a half coloured picture and made her want to run and get her box of broken crayons to fill the grey blanks in black.

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Grandpa bent on one knee, a gesture that brought him almost to eye level and earned her trust. Any adult who would risk staining their good ironed pants on the oily asphalt couldn’t be all that scary. “Veins ici, petite kwe,” he crooned in his half French, half Indian drawl. “I want to see my little chere.” She walked into his outstretched arms and was encircled by the viscous perfume of sweat and sweetgrass. It reminded her of being carried up to bed in her grandmother’s quilt, only half asleep but pretending to be passed out. She knew that he knew she was only pretending to be asleep, grateful for the small miracle of a strong grandfather who could carry her up the rickety, splintered stairs as if she were still a toddler with sausage limbs and wispy hair. He swung her up into his arms and with the hitches and halts of advanced age, stood straight. Ruby watched the sweat trickle down the back of his neck and stain his cotton shirt. She noticed the sky above his head was very blue and that the grey clouds had gathered together like old ladies conferring over a pot of stew making a murky halo around her grandfather’s dark head. She thought of the three witches stirring that smoky cauldron at the start of an old story her father had read to her.

Gingerly, her grandpa brought her feet to the asphalt. She didn’t make a sound, her mouth a little round ‘o’ of excitement, her eyes never leaving the bicycle. He grunted, trying to stand again, her weight having strained the oil-poor mechanisms of his stubborn bones. She walked over and picked it up from its side, struggling when the tires slid at crazy angles. Steadied now, the bike resting against her immature hip, she looked up at her grandpa. He blocked out the whole sun so that it barely streamed through the frosty parts of his hair. She didn’t hug him. She didn’t jump up and down. There was no balletic outburst of excitement sometimes mistaken for the pee-pee dance. Instead she thanked him with his own language, a gesture that meant more to him than a thousand kisses. “Meegwetch grandpere.” Then she swung her leg over the seat and, on tippy-toes in her shiny Mary Janes, socks slumped at her ankles like loose skin on a puppy, she started down the driveway.

“Why so serious all the time, kwezanz,” he asked with mock concern. “You plannin’ big things in your lil’ noggin, eh?” She shook her head, never breaking eye contact; her blunt cut bangs swung above her eyebrows, pursed lips blowing kisses at the women in the sky.

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BY: LEE MARACLE

e are so focussed on simple immediate recall that we often fail to consider the total concept of memory from our ancestral points of view. For Indigenous people, memory begins with the ova. Within the ova is our lineage memory, our memory for all time. This remarkable beginning hosts the capacity to organize all of the systems; the body will need to be human. It just needs impregnation and then it begins to go to work, creating inter-dependent cells, dependent cells, brain cells, skin cells and re-member to connect them in such a way that they all work together. In every cell a little mito neuron exists that even some scientists concur, may house our oldest memories from the beginning of time. Our ancestors believe that the memories of our past live in the body and if we clear our mind and open our spirits up to our bodies, we will remember our oldest stories. Even in our lifetimes, the body carries significant memories. We are all aware that accidents, injury, trauma of all sorts reside in the mind. But our people also know that they reside in the body. In those spaces where the muscle joins the bone, the body houses memories of hurt. That space is sometimes referred to as pain quarters by western doctors. Massage and tracking back will release the memory and free the body to become a risk taker again.

“Hmm. I think you’re always thinking, you,” he looked into her eyes like there were words written there, leaning in close until his broad nose touched hers. “Me, I think you’re thinking big things that are gonna take you far from this place.” He pointed with his lips, tilting his head slightly to indicate the street, the arena, and the small broken town around them. “And I think you’re gonna need a good horse to take you there.” He turned at an angle, lowering the shoulder closest to Ruby’s face so that she could see what lie between him and his old car. There it was, the most beautiful bike she had ever seen. It was red and shiny with a big black banana seat and crinkled ribbons poking out of the rubber gripped handlebars like plastic fireworks. The kick-stand was orange with rust and was too long for the frame so that once deployed, it caused the whole structure to tip. The paint job flickered with gold sparkles and the word ‘Stingray’ was written in masculine cursive down the crossbar, the ‘y’ cut short by paint chips so that it read ‘Stringrav’.

RE-MEMBERING MEMORY

The Girl Who Grew a Galaxy - CONT'd

Excerpt from: The Girl Who Grew a Galaxy, Theytus Books, Spring 2013 By: First Nations House Writer-in-Residence, Cherie Dimaline The First Nations House Writer-in-Residence program assists Aboriginal students and community members with their creative writing projects including networking opportunities, a book club, one-on-one editorial guidance and through the annual Indigenous Writers’ Gathering. Cherie Dimaline is the current writer-in-residence. Check our blog www.fnhouse.blogspot.com for hours, initiatives and events.

Memory is powerful, it can move us into the future, permit us to change the course of our lives by alerting us to deep interests and powerful feelings for a new direction, but they can also keep us still, victims of emotional or spiritual stasis. In many of our languages, this stillness is tantamount to spiritual death. When we forget, we fail to learn. Memory is to be played with, my grandmother used to say, so that we can gain in our wit. However, the pain centres of the body need to release the danger mode or the body will hold onto the memory. Vibrations release the hold the danger mode has on the body, so the hurt of the memory can be released. Song is all about vibration from within the body. Healing through song is a moor medical treatment in our communities.

How we remember affects the body as well. Song is lyricism and poetry is its main expression. When we use utilitarian language – I was in a car accident the other day and broke my arm. This is the sort of utilitarian language the body disdains, but if we visualize the accident: the memory becomes poetry replete with the lesson to be learned. Not only does the memory work on our behalf, but poetry as images that are lyrical actually strengthens the body. The memory then becomes a spring board releasing the spirit and freeing the person to muster their courage to go out and about in the world free of fear. Hidden in our bodies is the memory of our ancestors who know that the fastest road to healing is to metaphorically express the memory in poetic form and draw lessons from it. Our languages are lyrical, image filled and rich in metaphor. We remember this. The language of poetry lives in the body and we are always hungry for it. Our elders, even when speaking English, open with prayers that are poems and bring peace to our bodies, and we know, we just know, that we are at one with the world. In our bodies lives the original instructions, we received when we came to this earth: go out and about in the world and create oneness with creation. When we live in contradiction to this instruction a kind of madness [the split mind] over takes, or our bodies weaken [auto immune disease develops], our hearts are saddened and our spirits are overly cautious. Clear the path, our elders teach, make memory work for you. We understood that the body, mind, heart and spirit all are connected. The body will make you hesitate if you do not release the memories holding you back. Some of the ancestral memories that have a hold on our communities are the memories of illness [epidemic death], war, prohibition [potlatch laws]. We need to transform those memories into lessons that will free our bodies, but many of us are unaware that these memories live inside us. When we connect through ceremony [sweats, the pipe, the longhouse winter dances], these memories sometimes emerge and we sing and dance our way to freedom from the hesitation they sometimes create inside us. The memory then becomes valuable. The poetic passages of Daughters are forever and Will’s Garden, are examples of what can be learned and how the memory can serve us. We imagine that we don’t want to hear sad stories, but it is our sadness that cradles our love. When we are sad for someone it is a measure of memories of empathy. When we are sad for ourselves it is a measure of the memories of love and justice in our lineage. When we dodge that sadness, we also negate the empathy, justice and our love. All emotions have a place in a healthy life. We cannot prevent hurt, we can gain from it, if we allow our bodies, our minds and our hearts to re-member in a way that brings us away from the past and forward into the future, full of courage and optimism.