Warm fuzz coiling around Darryl’s spine cooled the raw fire that had sizzled under his skin all day. Kiss the Cook remained the same hangout for the youth to gather on Friday nights. The girls would stay put until the drum group began. They always sat in the bleachers at the Treaty Grounds and watched Darryl instruct the boys.
The girls waved, and he raised his hand. Although the Traditionalists Society’s mission was to preserve and teach the Anishinaabe ways, the reserve’s future women needed their own personal group that built character and pride. Starting a new job and concentrating on her addiction recovery left Raven little time for volunteering, but she did her best to engage the young ladies in cultural activities.
The diner door banged open. “How about the shore lunch special, sis? I’m starving.” Clayton promenaded to the counter.
“Okay. What about you?” Raven set some dirty glasses on her tray.
“Get me a ham sandwich on brown and the soup.” Darryl flipped the menu closed.
The nurses at the health station would sing his praises. Like a good boy, he’d stuck to his diabetic diet.
Clayton stood behind the counter. He grasped the coffee pot. “Want some?”
“Sure.” Darryl flipped over his mug.
Once Clayton poured, he sat. “I’m not surprised the deacon’s looking for another hand out. I bet he wants to drum up more support for his church. He’s scared we’ll yank the monthly donation now that you’re part of the leadership. He should be scared. The Society’s numbers are growing while the church’s are shrinking.”
Darryl shifted on the stool. He couldn’t fault Clayton’s frigid words. The guy was twelve years older and had served on band council three times, which meant voters supported him, and so did Auntie. “I assume you have something in mind.”
Clayton stared straight ahead at the cluttered shelves behind the back counter. “We have to reject their request at the meeting on Monday and—”
“I agree.” The reserve shouldn’t keep forking out money to the church. The diocese was responsible for their parishes. Darryl raised his mug and sipped.
“—make a motion to stop funding the monthly hydro bill. Let the bishop and his lapdog deacon figure out what to do about their money pit. If they make the rules, something we don’t have a say in, then they can pay for their church.”
The coffee stuck somewhere in Darryl’s throat. He coughed. “A motion was passed five years ago, stating chief and council agreed to cover the cost indefinitely. I don’t think it’s possible to dissolve the motion.”
Clayton shook back his hair. The feather he’d woven into a thin side-braid bobbed. “We owe it to our people. The church has no right hosting healing workshops. Not after what it did to the Anishinaabeg.” He turned in his seat. “What about you? Look what it did to your family.”
Darryl lowered his head and hunched over the counter. Clayton was right. The pain and shame Mom and Dad endured at the residential school had destroyed them. A bottle helped Auntie dull her bitter anger and grief. Her health was precarious now because of the Catholic Church.
Too many people still suffered, thanks to those schools. Not only the people who’d been forced to attend them, but their children and grandchildren who’d grown up in an environment of agony, disgrace, and rage. “Okay, I’m in.”
Clayton patted Darryl’s shoulder. “I knew I could count on you. People are afraid to stand up for their beliefs, scared they’ll be pegged as troublemakers.”
After a fifteen-minute break and holding another can of iced tea, Darryl dropped in the chair beside Clayton. They should do something about the heat in the meeting room at the band office. Fat chance of air conditioning happening. Hydro was too expensive in the remote north. As for the two ceiling fans, they only spread the pungent stench of stale leather, cheap perfume, fried bread, and body odor.
So far there’d been no debates. Whether this was a good or bad sign, Darryl didn’t know, because Healing the Spirit was next on the agenda.
Seven councilors sat around the rectangle table, with Chief Willie at the head. Each person represented a geographic area of Ottertail Lake.
“I see the church has its donation basket out again.” Clayton stationed his hands on the scuffed table and stink-eyed Roy Morrison.
Darryl stifled his groan. Ruffling feathers wasn’t the best way to persuade the others to favor their forthcoming suggestion. They needed the councilors’ support, not generating sympathy for Roy, traitor to his own kind. If Darryl didn’t speak up, Clayton would turn the meeting into one of his intense debates.
“With all due respect, our mandate is to the members of the reserve, not one group—”
Roy tapped his meeting package. “Keep in mind Norman’s a member of Ottertail Lake and a residential school survivor. He does lots of good work as a deacon. And you also keep in mind, lots of people go to church.”
“Like you?” Clayton’s tone darkened.
Someone muttered. Another coughed.
Roy folded his arms across his big gut. “This isn’t about me. We’re talking about much-needed healing for residential school syndrome.”
“The Traditionalists Society has healing workshops,” Darryl said. Hot knives pricked his stomach. Someone on the reserve was always aiding Deacon Matawapit and his precious parish. “We provide sharing circles for our men, women, youth, and elders. I like to think what we’re doing—”
“Yah, it’s a good thing. Keep in mind not everyone’s traditional.” Roy reached for a fresh cookie from the plate at the center of the table. “Some band members prefer workshops held by the church.”
Darryl kept his voice even. Like hell he’d let on the conversation was pushing his big red anger button. “I was elected by members of the reserve—we all were—to consider each request at our meetings. I won’t favor one when someone has to be baptized in the—”
Roy’s small eyes popped to the shape of saucers. “The workshop’s open to everyone. Lemme tell you something, nobody has to be baptized.”
“Darryl brought up a good point,” another councilor said, while uncapping and recapping her pen. “Band members have benefited from workshops sponsored by the Traditionalists Society and the church. One group has sharing circles, the other, a prayer group. Even the recovering addicts and alcoholics have their own special meetings. We’re here to assist the people in all their endeavors, aren’t we? Therefore, we should provide options to nourish their spirituality.”
“Before the whites showed up, our culture and traditions were good enough. They brainwashed a lot of you through the residential schools, and you’re passing on your brainwashing to our children, grandchildren, and their children. The Anishinaabeg practice the Anishinaabe way.” Clayton’s accusing words sizzled and sneered with the right amount of goading to pinch anybody’s skin.
Darryl rubbed his brow. So much for keeping the meeting on a level keel. The fireworks should begin any second.
“Lemme ask you something.” Roy tossed aside his cookie and scrambled halfway out of his chair. His big gut bumped the table. “What are the Seven Grandfathers Teachings? You sure ain’t practicing respect here, are you?”
Chief Willie adjusted his black cowboy hat and puckered his lips at the clock tacked above the coffee buffet. “Say, it’s already ten. If we keep going back and forth we won’t get done till eleven. I’m already late getting the wife from bingo. We got six more agenda items. The parish doesn’t always have its hand out. They do lots of fundraising. Let’s vote.”
Darryl reached for his iced tea. Leave it to Willie to snuff out the fireworks. The man was a fence-sitter who attended church and practiced the traditional ways to appease everyone so they’d keep voting for him.
Someone hiccupped. Another coughed.
It was time for Darryl to play his last card. They wouldn’t be able to weasel out of this one. “What about the deficit incurred by our contribution to the church’s hydro bill? Does this concern anyone? Do we have the funds to make
a donation to Healing the Spirit?”
Everyone’s focus shifted to the band manager, who shuffled his papers. “We do have surpluses in a couple of budgets.”
“Budgets are specific to each program.” The band manager couldn’t fool Darryl. “Are we going to remove five hundred from... hmm...the youth initiatives program? This means they’ll have five hundred dollars less to run their program, which is badly needed, especially for the girls.”
“We won’t be disrupting other programs.” A drop of sweat slithered down the band manager’s forehead to his thick, black eyebrow. “They have additional funds left over, which means we can donate the money to the church’s workshop and the youth won’t be affected.”
Affected? Darryl set down his iced tea. “Why do we have a surplus in the budget for the girls, anyway? I think we should discuss the lack of activity for the future women of our reserve—”
“Say, we’re getting off topic. We’re talking about Healing the Spirit. He’s doing what we pay him to do—manage the shooniyaa and staff on our behalf.” Willie puckered his lips at the band manager, who was also the chief’s brother-in-law. “It’s late. Let’s vote.”
Darryl snuck a peek at a flaming-eyed Clayton. All everyone cared about was getting home to watch TV or picking up their spouses from whatever activities they were engaged in.
“Fine. Go ahead and vote. Just remember you’re robbing your children, grandchildren, and their grandchildren of their culture and what it is to be Anishinaabe. Keep following what the Church and Government started over a century ago.” Clayton banged the table.
Everyone jumped.
“I’ll make the motion.” Roy raised his hand, his beady eyes small slits.
Apart from Darryl and Clayton, band council voted favorably for the parish’s monetary request, which meant the motion was passed.
Sharper than the lancet Darryl used to prick the tip of his finger when he checked his blood glucose level, a stabbing pain seared his heart. Again, Deacon Matawapit and his precious church had slapped Darryl’s face.
About the Author
An author bio: An Ojibway from Northwestern Ontario, Maggie resides in the country with her husband and their fur babies, two beautiful Alaskan Malamutes. When she’s not writing, she can be found pulling weeds in the flower beds, mowing the huge lawn, walking the Mals deep in the bush, teeing up a ball at the golf course, fishing in the boat for walleye, or sitting on the deck at her sister’s house, making more wonderful memories with the people she loves most.
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