The silence was deafening. As soon as I flung one lime green spangly platform-shoed leg out the door there was a loud gasp all around the cab. And when I stepped out there was about fifty heads all leaning in gazing at my yellow balloon-sleeved shirt and you could hear the sounds of a few dozen sniffers catching a whiff of my fifty-dollar scent. Four or five sets of hands were scrunching up my Afro and I could hear giggles from the kids as everyone was pressing closer and closer towards me. When the cab pulled away in a flurry of gravel, they surrounded me. It was true after all. Indians did love to surround you.
There was another loud gasp when I took off my shades and smiled all around.
“S’app’nin’?” I said, bobbing my head and reaching out for hands to shake.
“Ho-leeee!” someone said.
“Wow!”
“Ever look like Stanley!”
“Ever, eh?”
“Ho-leeee!” said about three together.
Just about then a tall guy with a long ponytail reached through the crowd all excited like and started pushing people back amidst grumbling and something that sounded like cussing. When he made it up to me he stopped and looked at me with shiny eyes and kinda reaching out with his arms then pulling back, reaching out and pulling back. Finally, tears started pouring down his face. Everyone got real quiet all of a sudden and when I looked at this guy it was almost like looking into a mirror except for there being a ponytail where the Afro should have been and a definite absence of funky threads. He stared at me for what seemed like an eternity with all kindsa things working across his face, and when he spoke it was a whisper.
“Garnet,” he said. “Garnet. Garnet. Garnet.”
He reached out and touched me finally, one soft little grab of the shoulder, and then he collapsed into my arms sobbing like a kid while everyone around us moved in a little closer too.
“Twenty-two years,” he said, sobbing. “Twenty-two years, my brother. Twenty-two years.”
I was crying by this time too and all the faces around me went kinda outta focus through the tears but I could tell we weren’t the only ones breaking down and I remember thinking I wasn’t exactly being downtown cool, but right then it didn’t really matter. Holding my brother in my arms was unlike anything I’d ever felt, and as we cried I could feel that lifelong feeling of wind whistling through my guts getting quieter and quieter.
He looked up finally, threw his arm around my shoulder and turned to the crowd.
“This is my … my … my brother,” he said, choking up and sniffling. “The one that disappeared. He’s home.”
People started coming up and shaking my hand and smiling and touching me and there were tears everywhere as I heard the names of aunts and uncles and cousins and just plain White Dog folk for the first time. Stanley stood off to the side looking over at me and smiling, smiling and smiling. After a while they all moved away and started looking me over again.
“Ho-leeee!” said a voice.
“Wow!”
“Sure he’s a Raven?” someone asked. “Looks like a walkin’ fishin’ lure or somethin’!”
“Yeah, that hair’s a good reminder to the kids ’bout foolin’ round with the electircal!”
“An’ what’s that smell? Smell like that should have fruit flies all around his head!”
“Damndest-lookin’ Indyun I ever saw! Looks kinda like that singer we seen on TV that time. What’s ’is name now? James Brown? Yeah. We got us one James Brown-lookin’ Indian here!”
“Come on,” Stanley said once people started moving away. “There’s a buncha people up at my house been feelin’ kinda down ’cause they figured you weren’t comin’. Seein’ you’s gonna make ’em all feel a whole lot better. You okay?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Least, I think so. It’s kinda weird, man.”
“Yeah,” he said, “I guess so. Wanted to ease you in slow but you weren’t on the bus. What happened?”
“Nothin’, man,” I said. “Don’t matter.”
“Least you’re here now,” he said. “That’s all we wanted. Took a long time to find you.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. “Tell me about it.”
They been comin’ for our kids long time now. Nothin’ new. Not for us. They been comin’ on the sly for years. I always thought it was us Indyuns s’posed to do all the sneakin’ and creepin’ around. But those white people, boy, they got us beat when it come to sneakin’ through the bushes. Maybe we taught ’em too much. Heh, heh, heh.
The boy’s story’s not much diff’rent from what we seen around here for a long time. Sure, in them movies us Indyuns are always runnin’ off with children and raisin’ them up savage. Give ’em funny-soundin’ names like Found on the Prairie, Buffalo Dog or somethin’. I always figured they shoulda called ’em Wind in His Pants, Plenty Bingos, Busts Up Laughing or Sneaks Off Necking. Somethin’ really Indyun. Heh, heh, heh. But in the real world it’s the white people kept on sneakin’ off with our kids. Guess they figured they were doin’ us a favor. Gonna give them kids the benefit of good white teachin’, raise them up proper. Only thing they did was create a whole new kinda Indyun. We used to call them Apples before we really knew what was happenin’. Called ’em Apples on accounta they’re red on the outside and white on the inside. It was a cruel joke on accounta it was never their fault. Only those not livin’ with respect use that term now.
But we lost a generation here. In the beginning it was the missionary schools. Residential schools they called them. Me I was there. They come and got me when I was five and took me and a handful of others. The boy’s mother was one of them. They took us and cut off our hair, dressed us in baggy clothes so we all looked the same, told us our way of livin’ and prayin’ was wrong and evil. Got beat up for speakin’ Indyun. If we did that we’d all burn in hell they told us. Me I figured I was already brown why not burn the rest of the way, so I ran away. Came back here. Lots of others stayed though. Lots never ever came back and them that did were real diff’rent. Got the Indyun all scraped off their insides. Like bein’ Indyun was a fungus or somethin’. They scraped it all off and never put nothin’ there to replace it but a bunch of fear and hurt. Seen lotsa kids walkin’ around like old people after a while. Them schools were the beginning of how we started losin’ our way as a people.
Then they came with their Children’s Aid Society. Said our way was wrong and kids weren’t gettin’ what they needed, so they took ’em away. Put ’em in homes that weren’t Indyun. Some got shipped off long ways. Never made it back yet. Disappeared. Got raised up all white but still carryin’ brown skin. Hmmpfh. See, us we know you can’t make a beaver from a bear. Nature don’t work that way. Always gotta be what the Creator made you to be. Biggest right we all got as human bein’s is the right to know who we are. Right to be who we are. But them they never see that. Always thinkin’ they know what’s best for people. But it’s not their fault. When you quit lookin’ around at nature you quit learnin’ the natural way. The world gets to be somethin’ you gotta control so you’re always fightin’ it. Us we never fight the world. We look around lots, find its rhythm, its heartbeat, and learn to walk that way. Concrete ain’t got no rhythm, and steel never learned to breathe. You spend time in the bush and on the land, you learn the way of the bush and the way of the land. The natural way. Way of the universe. Spend time surrounded by concrete and steel, you learn their way too, I guess.
Back when I was a boy there was still a strong bunch of us livin’ the old way. Lot of us crossed over since then and with those of us who’s left maybe only a handful still practicin’ the old way. Rest are Catholic and some other whiteman way. S’okay though. They’re still our people no matter how they pray on accounta prayin’s the most important thing anyway. Long as there’s some kinda prayer there’s some kinda hope. But there’s not many of us old traditional people left walkin’ around. Not many for the young ones to come to no more. That’s why you hear more English than Anishanabe around here. Some other places too.
Other tribes, other Indyuns. S’why it’s so important for old guys like me to be passin’ on what we know. I’m not talkin’ about bringin’ back the buffalo hunt or goin’ back to the wigwam. I’m talkin’ about passin’ on the spirit of all those things. If you got the spirit of the old way in you, well, you can handle most anythin’ this new world got to throw around. The spirit of that life’s our traditions. Things like respect, honesty, kindness and sharin’. Those are our traditions. Livin’ that old tribal way taught people those things. That they needed each other just to survive. Same as now. Lookin’ around at nature taught the old ones that. Nature’s fulla respect, honesty, kindness and sharin’. S’way of the world, I guess.
But lotsa our people think that just learnin’ the culture’s gonna be their salvation. Gonna make ’em Indyun. Lotsa young ones out there learnin’ how to beat the pow-wow drum and sing songs. Learnin’ the dances and movin’ around on the pow-wow trail ev’ry summer. Lotsa people growin’ hair and goin’ to see ceremony. Think they’re more Indyun that way. S’good to see. But there’s still lotsa people out there still drinkin’, beatin’ each other up, raisin’ their kids mean. All kindsa things. That’s not our way. So just doin’ the culture things don’t make you no Indyun. Lotsa white people doin’ our culture too now and they’re never gonna be Indyun. Always just gonna be lookin’ like people that can’t dance. Heh, heh, heh.
What I’m tryin’ to say is tradition gives strength to the culture. Makes it alive. Gotta know why you dance ’steada just how. It’s tradition that makes you Indyun. Sing and dance forever but if you’re not practicin’ tradition day by day you’re not really bein’ Indyun. Old man told me one time he said, the very last time you got up in the mornin’ and said a quiet prayer of thanks for the day you been given was the very last time you were an Indyun. Then he said, the very last time you got handed some food and bowed your head and said a prayer of thanks and asked for the strength you got from that food to be used to help someone around you, well, that was the very last time you were an Indyun too. And he told me he said, the very last time you did somethin’ for someone without bein’ asked, bein’ thanked or tellin’ about it was the very last time you were an Indyun. See, it’s all respect, kindness, honesty and sharin’. Built right in. Do that all the time and boy, you just dance and sing up a real storm next time. Heh, heh, heh.
That’s what we gotta pass on. ’Cause tradition’ll keep you goin’ when you’re livin’ it. Us we need to remember these things. Keep ’em alive inside me. Live ’em so they stay strong. Lotsa kids comin’ back nowadays really need to he shown. Tough thing to do when the kids are forty-four, twenty-five or whatever.
Nowadays the whiteman comes in lotsa diff’rent ways. Oh, they still come with their schools and their foster homes, but we got some of our own teachers and social workers now, so kinda gettin’ better there. But they still come for the kids. They come with their TV, money, big inventions and ideas. They come with big promises ’bout livin’ in the world, with their politics and their welfare. They come with their rap music, break dancin’ and funny ways of dressin’. All kinds of shiny things. Kids get all excited, funny in the head ’bout things, wanna go chasin’ after all that stuff. Tradition? Ah, it’s just borin’ stuff for old guys like me can’t rap dance. Somethin’ you gotta do when you ain’t got no other choice. That’s how they come nowadays. On the sly. Harder for kids to come back from these things than from them schools or foster homes sometimes.
That’s why we gotta pass it on. Always gotta be someone around who knows. Always gotta be someone around to catch ’em when they land here all owl-eyed and scared, askin’ questions, tryin’ to find if they belong here still. If they wanna stick around. Always gotta be someone who knows the kindness built into tradition. Ease ’em back slow. Got the Indyun all scraped offa their insides, carryin’ ’round big hurts an’ bruises. Poke around too much you hurt ’em an’ they run away. So you bring ’em back from the inside out. Nothin’ in this world ever grew from the outside in. That’s why I help the boy understand. He learned ’bout respect before he ever learned to sing or dance. Learned to be kind and share before he learned to tan a hide or how to hunt. Learned to be honest before I let him be a storyteller. Learned about bein’ Indyun, about himself. That way he’ll survive anything.
He looked funny enough when he got here wearin’ all those strange things and havin’ a head of hair looked like a cat been through the dryer, smellin’ like fruit and talkin’ funny. Guess if he could survive walkin’ around lookin’ and smellin’ like that, learnin’ to live an’ learn off the land was gonna be simple. Heh, heh, heh.
The first thing most people notice about us Indians is how we’re laughing most of the time. It doesn’t really matter whether we’re all dressed up in traditional finery or in bush jackets and gumboots, seems like a smile and big roaring guffaw is everywhere with us. Used to be that non-Indians thought we were just simple. You know, typical kinda goofy-grinning lackeys riding out to get shot offa our horses by the wagon train folks. Or standing around on a corner in some city bumming smokes an’ change but yukking it up anyway. But the more they stick around the more they realize that Indians have a real good sense of humor and it’s that humor more than anything that’s allowed them to survive all the crap that history threw their way. Keeper says laughin’s about as Indian as bannock and lard. Most of the teaching legends are filled with humor on accounta Keeper says when people are laughing they’re really listening hard to what you’re saying. Guess the old people figured that was the best way to pass on learning. Once you stop to remember what it was you were laughing at you remember the whole story, and that’s how the teachings were passed on. Guess if it was thirty below and I was hunched around some little fire in a wigwam I’d wanna be laughing too instead of listening to some big deep talk.
Teasing’s big around here too. You get lotta teasing from people on accounta teasing’s really a way of showing affection for someone and like me at first, a lotta people have a hard time figuring that out. Get all insulted and run away. But once you figure that out it’s a lotta fun being around a bunch of Indians.
When Stanley and me got to his cabin that first day I was expecting a big warm family kind of scene like on “The Waltons.” I figured there’d be a big spread on the table, maybe a little wine, music and a party happening. Instead there was about ten people sitting around drinking tea they were pouring out of a big black old-fashioned metal pot on a pot-bellied stove in the middle of the room. There weren’t any decorations or anything unless you can call six or seven pairs of wool socks hung over the stove pipes decorations.
They all looked up as we walked in. The silence was deafening.
“Ho! Whatchu got there, Stanley?” said a big gap-toothed guy with a brushcut. “Not Halloween yet, is it?”
“Ho-wah!” said a large fat woman with gumboots, a kerchief around her head and smoking a pipe. “Thought he was coming from T’rana, not Disneyland!”
“Reee-leee!” said another woman. “Who’d you say adopted him? Liberace?”
“Ahh, he’s just dressed fer huntin’,” said an old man with so many wrinkles he looked like he was folded up wet and left overnight. “Wanna make sure he don’t get mistook fer no deer.”
“Deer? Maybe get mistook for the northern lights but sure ain’t nobody gonna be thinkin’ he’s a deer no matter how dark it gets,” said a tall spindly woman busy pouring herself another tea.
Stanley eased me into the center of the room with his hand on my shoulder and I could feel the pressure of it getting a little firmer the more nervous I got. Like he wanted to hold me from bolting for the door, which was exactly the thought going through my mind at the time. He smiled at me and waved at a large round woman leaning in the doorway and staring real hard at us both.
“Your sister,” was all he said. Or at least I think that’s all he said because I got swept up in her big brown arms and disappeared for about five minutes. I could feel her breathing de
eper and deeper as she hugged me and when she finally let me surface for air she was crying real quiet and smiling at the same time. She was a lot wider than me, but it’s kinda spooky when you look at someone you swear you’ve never seen before and you can see your own eyes looking back at you. I didn’t doubt for a minute that this woman was my sister.
“Hi, bro’,” she said. “I’m Jane. Do you remember me at all?”
“No,” I said real quiet. “No, I don’t think I do.”
“S’okay,” she said. “S’okay. I remember you real good. Little bigger than before but I remember you, all right.”
“Ahh, get the hell outta the way, Jane, and let us meet this boy kept us waitin’ three days and twenty years anyway!” said an energetic little guy. “How you doin’, T’rana? I’m yer uncle Buddy.”
Well, they all lined up and for the next half hour or so I was introduced to my uncles Gilbert, Archie and Joe, aunties Myrna and Ella, Chief Isaac McDonald and wife, Bertha, and the wrinkled-up old guy who said his name was Keeper and who left right away with Buddy.
Two things really got my attention that day. The first was the way they just seemed to treat me like I was someone they’d always known. Like the twenty years didn’t matter to them or the way I was dressed, the Afro or anything. It was like I was already a part of their lives and let’s get on with it all. The second thing was the absence of my mother and my other brother, Jackie. Of all the things I was scared of, meeting my mother after all that time was the biggest and I wondered why she wasn’t there. Anyway, after all the introductions were over everybody just visited with each other and it was like the excitement was over and life was back to normal for them. Me, I was pretty confused.
“Take a walk, Garnet, you, me’n Jane,” Stanley said. “Only here’s a pair of shoes to wear around till you get some of your own. Those heels’ll kill you round here.”
Keeper'n Me Page 5
