I asked about the dress code, they said “informal but neat.” When I told my husband, his face lit up thinking of the free booze and pretty women. Dam it, I loved the guy even knowing about his women! We drove to Halifax, me in my Native dress of polyester with a leather fringe and borrowed moccasins. My heart felt as big as all outdoors — this was my undertaking I had accomplished, my personal triumph. I felt good, visualizing riches beyond dreams…
When we arrived at the Holiday Inn the place was packed with people. The ladies all wore evening gowns or very beautiful dresses; my polyester gown stuck out like a sore thumb. We were led to a reserved table with our name cards. While the prizes were handed out in each category, we made polite conversation with other people at the table. Finally, the poetry category; but then, my nervousness was spent talking to the person next to me. When my name was called, my husband gave me a poke. I walked to the front, the announcement music to my ears; “Rita Joe, from Eskasoni, Cape Breton.” After accepting the award, I floated back to my seat, the applause boosting my spirit.
The rest of the evening was spent with stars in my eyes; shaking hands everywhere, talking to everyone around me, the feeling of my triumph, being a Native who had won over other people who may have entered and didn’t win. Who knows what may have swayed the judges, maybe the fact of the lone Indian among all the intellectuals. I didn’t care, I just won!
Before Frank and I were preparing to go to Halifax I had bought a book written by a lady I knew would be there. She was a famous lady who had written a best seller. An idea was in my mind that I would get her autograph on the book and ask for details for writing a best seller. I looked at all the people, she was nowhere in sight. Finally I wandered into a dimly lit room set aside for anyone who wanted to relax and have a drink with the musical band playing in the corner. I saw some teacher friends and asked if they had seen Frank anywhere. The lady pursed her lips and indicated the dance floor — there was Frank and the famous lady glued together waltzing. The green-eyed monster went to work but that was the famous lady I wanted to see and first things come first, the monster can wait. The song ended, they came back to the table. Frank noticed me sitting there, his introduction, “my wife Rita Joe.” The beautiful lady looked at me and announced, “I have been wanting to meet you for the longest time.” She came around the table and leaned on my shoulder. “I hope you don’t mind my dancing with your husband?” “Mussy mon eta (!#$%).” My husband was giggling there like a Cheshire cat, he was the only one who understood what I said. “What did you say?” “Oh I don’t mind.” She sat down across from me, politely expressing, “You were one of the winners.” “How did you do your research?” I asked knowing the content of her fantastic book, Across the Country. “Who did you ask?” “Indians,” she said. “Aha you stole it from the Indians.” I knew what I was talking about, the content of her book was so unbelievable in my mind, there had to be a catch somewhere. I told her I had read the book over and over again, mentioning certain paragraphs. “You remember the certain so and so near the fireplace?” she said. I knew what she was talking about, that is the part that makes the best seller.
On our way home I told Frank I’m going to write a best seller. “Read me what you two were discussing?” he asked. I read it to him, “I’ll divorce you.” The announcement swelled my heart, I knew he loved me in his own way, the spiritual part of our togetherness.
The best seller has not yet been written.
Later on Writers’ Federation offered to find a publisher for my work. The part of a formal written material had not occurred to me; that part had to wait while the Writers Federation looked for a way to fund the project. A publisher was found — a fellow working on his bar exam at the law school. Someone else got into the act, an award winning author who worked with me, the working part consisting of structures, synonyms, metaphors and what not. I did not understand much of what he said, but what I understood at one point, “Indians did not do this or that.” The exasperating aftemoon ended with a cautionary remark I live with to this day. “Rita you cry too much in your poetry.” Today I try not to cry, but be more assertive. I know I’m the authority on my life, the Indian part. It’s summed up with my answered assertive outburst, “Damn it, I lived it.” That is the spirit my helper was trying to bring out.
Once the book was printed I had no way of knowing if it was making any money. The publisher looked after that part. All those different organizations were pushing it to what direction I never knew. My knowledge of book writing numbered zero. I know my husband was proud of it and selling at every opportunity.
Finally the Department of Education made contact with me and asked if I wanted to go to the schools of the province, from that direction the Canada Council. The schools in my province did not have much money, so if I went somewhere I received a diary book or a craft for payment. Once the Canada Council was contacted for me to go somewhere, the people who wanted me would ask a half a year in advance. The schools, universities, organizations and women’s groups have kept me busy.
Once when I was invited to the north of Ontario I wanted to include an Indian song in my expression so I asked Sarah Denny of the Micmac Institute of Cultural Studies to teach me the songs she sings. One of the songs has the “Ego” sound in it. The night before my leaving for the engagement I called her up and asked how many egos in the song. “Never mind how many (!@#$) egos,” she said. “They will not know the difference where you are going.” I laugh at that part more than anything because the non-Indians know very little about the Native expressions to know the difference. Another time I was on the Dave Wright Show; everything went well but the next day an educated individual put me on while I was hitchhiking in my community. “I saw you on television last night. It was good, but the song you sang was Mohawk,” he said. That part was reasoned out that when the other tribes had dealings with us, the exchange was gift-giving. If you do not have anything you give a story or song which is true.
The other writers I get to meet offer all sorts of advice. I try to make friends with them, they are good people. The hardships of being a writer are many, the pitfalls we sometimes compare; we laugh about them.
In all of my speaking engagements I remember one particular time at the Province House. The dignitaries were packed in the chamber, this organization or that one were all represented. The dignitaries had no meaning to me when I saw the roster of who will be saying what. When it was my turn I saw to my left a deaf-mute I saw perform earlier. I directed my song to her, the words like a prayer on my part to her. There was a translator explaining my words to her, the English part was understood, her acknowledgment was in her eyes, the expression on her face was my payment many times over. The presentations on my part are done with much care, no matter how many people, it can be six or in the thousands. An eloquence is not in my style but the truth, if the spiritual part is evident, it comes from the root.
Silver Donald Cameron once told me, “What took you so damn long to bring out another book.” The ten years was on his mind between Poems of Rita Joe and the Song of Eskasoni. “Oh, I can’t keep up with you, a book every year,” I told him. His expression of the shy woman expressing her culture is very much appreciated. The second book Song of Eskasoni, is more assertive, the analysis of my culture takes on a different form. The demonstration of angered expression not ever to my liking, I try to sway the masses to see my point, the views concerning the Indian, the chisel carving the image too long knocked down by old chronicles I call them. The beauty is there if one looks for it. I have often said, “Beauty can be found under a rock if one looks for it.” Pauline Johnson found it. I knew if I searched long enough, I would too.
The scary part for me at first was speaking to a Micmac audience; one time when I spoke to a class in Eskasoni, the class of University of New Brunswick students, I shook like a leaf. “You guys scare me,” I told them. Helen Sylliboy handed me a glass of water, “Why do we scare you Rita, we admire you.” I thanked the lady from the bo
ttom of my heart. Maybe Frank was in the class, that may have something to do with it. I always told my husband to hide behind somebody so I would not laugh or keel over. He was my worst critic and it was good, so I kept on my toes. The women in my community helped a lot; in fact some of the famous words probably belong to them. Expressed in Micmac but put into English.
The expressive part of my culture is the way my people are, the humility I see in all aspects of the native environmental situations. I try to study even between the lines in all history. The searching has brought the most satisfying conclusions: for instance I was looking through a historical text about the cross-bearers they are called. A statement leaped out mentioning the Souri-quois, and the knowledge that it was us, the text I was referring to gave me tremendous feelings of discovery. “That is us!” I was hollering in my kitchen. I did a jig to no one but my own spirit.
The third book L’nu (meaning Indian person) is to me the spiritual part I have wanted to explain; the basic thought on my part about the native spirituality is not easily understood. To me, personally, it seems I’m in the middle lane of many roads. I walk the land stemming from my roots, the crying part begging for you to understand how good my people are, the spiritual part uppermost in their mind. I look at them at Salite (after the funeral auction). The simple act of helping another individual in need, the help is for the remaining members in the family. My people will give the last they have to fill this need. A long time ago it was in feeding the crowd, giving comfort, any small deed you knew in your heart would help the survivors. The remaining family members appreciate the mutual unity we practice.
An emptiness is felt on my part about the practice I wish can be had for the traditional experiences in the church activities. I am a Eucharist Minister in the church and when I first started the function, a nervousness was felt I may do something wrong. One day as I approached the altar I saw on there a dressed feather, I felt a beautiful feeling in my heart, the nervousness was gone and I went about my duties at ease. The dressed feather was all it took to put ease in my heart — just think what would happen if other traditional ways were used. When Reverend Pius Hawley first arrived to minister in our parish, he asked the Church Committee to have people sing in Micmac the choir songs sung. The practice went so well, the elderly in our community expressed surprise at hearing Native words in song. And as time passed each individual priest encouraged something else. Father Paul, as we call Reverend Paul MacGillvary, learned many words in the short time he has been here.
When my first book Poems of Rita Joe came out, the media called it literature, so an immediate reaction on my part was to better my education. An up-grading of grade twelve, then business education for typing with the ten fingers followed. I used to mention a college degree, but about the same time in 1980 my husband walked into the house one day and expressed a desire for higher learning for himself. “By all means go ahead.” Feeling goodness for him and at the same time our daughter Evelyn who had a broken marriage and wanted to better herself (there was a four month old baby to consider and two older children), I put my dream on the shelf and looked after the three little ones and nurtured my husband’s and daughter’s needs. In the three years from the Teachers’ College she received her degree, and in four years my husband finished at the University of New Brunswick. I remember he used to encourage Step as we call Evelyn to “up” her learning. She speaks of her dad and the wish someday to be fulfilled.
Frank was not yet satisfied with the Bachelor of Education degree; there was something else he wanted to do, so he went to work for The Micmac Family and Children’s Services as it was just beginning at the time. The job and more learning brought Frank the need that was bursting all over him all this time. The four years he worked for The Children’s Services were hard for him. He used to say, “Even if I die after I finish my sociology degree I will be happy, a legacy will be left behind for our children and their children as well as our people.”
My heart was full for this man I spent the thirty-five years with. Our children had felt fear, love, respect and finally a great admiration for their father, the admiration part is mostly remembered. I use to tell him when we went to my speaking engagements, “our little honeymoons.” He couldn’t do enough for me when we were together, the never-ending expression of being mean in the early part of our marriage. One day as we were driving to Sydney, he said, “I’m crazy getting all these degrees, I did it so I can do better than you.” I looked at this honest man, whatever may have been his faults, he was good inside. I may have known that when I married him but it took thirty-five years for us to realize it. On the last little honeymoon we took in Maine, I remembered his words to me. “Are you happy?” “I’m happy where you are,” I told him. “I’m happy where you are too,” he said. On Sunday, August 13, 1989 we went to the little church at Peter Dana Point. During the church service I usually bow my head when the priest lifts the wafer. That morning, I never knew why I looked at my husband’s bowed head. Now when I close my eyes I see that bowed head.
After the church service, we spoke to an elderly couple, they said they were from New York and as we walked away from them my husband said, “It’s too bad they’re not from here, we may have had a good dinner.” “Oh, you are always thinking of your stomach,” I told him. “Now we’re going to bingo,” he announced. There was one on in Princeton, Maine. We had lunch there and settled down playing the game. Gloria Maloney, our friend from Shube-nacadie, Nova Scotia, sat near us. Frank asked where was the Smithsonian Institute. “What in the world are you doing with that place?” I asked. “That is the place I’m taking you next” he said. Niagara Falls was enough, I told him. Gloria said her goodbyes, she was heading home to Shubie. “We head for home tomorrow” he said.
We got a room at the Fulton Cabins, near Calais, Maine. The manager had a French-sounding name. Frank stood over him, taller than the man. “You know they took the land from us don’t you?” he said. The man realized the allied expression. “They did at that.” The two became fast friends. “You two are good people,” he said.
We settled for the night, my husband expressed one more wish. “I’m going to get some lunch,” he said. “Lock the door because I’m taking a shower and going to sleep,” I told him. During the night I awoke a few times and saw him sitting up. “Go back to sleep,” he would say. I rolled over and went back to sleep. In the morning I tried to get up without waking him. He awoke. I asked what time he finally went to sleep. “After the sixth Turn,” he said, talking about the acid-help his stomach needed. “Make tea while I shower.” I made him tea and put raisin bran in a bowl for him. I heard him holler when the hot water ran out. “How do I look?” as he stood there in a very white shirt and tan-colored pants. “Me’tasimon (you smell romantic)” I told him. “Oh, you’re just saying that.” We both laughed, happy in our togetherness. “I’m going to take a chance on the muffin again,” he said. He blamed the muffin on the stomach-ache all night. “I’ll put the stuff in the car while you clean up.”
He took a small bag to the car. I heard the car door slam. He came inside holding his chest, “Ke’snukay, Rita (I’m sick, Rita).” “Sit down, I’ll put the stuff in the car,” I told him. He sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes told me the pain felt. The look told me all the love we felt and sadness for leaving me. He fell back on the bed, the convulsive attack in progress. I ran outside bumping into the cleaning lady for the cabins. “Call an ambulance,” I yelled at her. My attention back on him, to minister what he may need and as I stood over him, waiting for the spasm to pass. I saw him sigh and relax, at the same time I felt a whiff of cold air pass as if through me, even raising my eyes to the ceiling expecting to see his passing. “Kogo’ey wejinkalin’ (Why did you leave me)?” I hollered at the still form. The lady came in then, rolling the bed away from the wall hollering into his ear “help us, help yourself.” He never regained consciousness.
I ran outside, kicked the car, yelling to no one in particular, my anger and s
orrow mingled together. At the hospital the doctors met me with no in their eyes. “I want to call home,” I told a nurse. She dialed the Canadian exchange, Caroline answered. “Your father is ill.” I heard her scream, yelling to her younger sister Ann, “Dad is sick.” A nurse tapped me on the shoulder, indicating a doctor who wanted to tell me something. “You do not know what this man had done,” I kept repeating over and over again. Meaning what his accomplishments were. A social worker came and we talked a long time. Allison Bernard, the Chief of Eskasoni, was called at the blueberry field where he was working. I told them to make sure my daughter, Frances, was notified before someone blurts it out to her accidently. Allison said he pitied Frances standing there with a beautiful smile on her face not knowing her father was dead. Mr. Bernard came to pick me up, I remember he was eating an apple. I knocked it out of his hand, exclaiming, “You men are always eating.” Poor man, he put the apple down. On arrival at the blueberry camp, Frances came to me, our tears soaking each other’s shoulders. Tom, her husband, took command, finding a driver to take my car home to Canada.
Sara Doucette, Tom’s mother, passed a word around; pretty soon a bundle of cash was handed to me. “Gas money,” they said. Sappy my grandson, whose correct name is Oliver Jr., was driving, with my son-in-law following behind in a truck with Frances and their three children. In New Brunswick we stopped at a service station. “We’re going to rest,” Tom said. Sappy fell asleep right away. I sat there reliving my pain, looking at Frank’s identification card. “He’s a good man, knowing many trades, the one of them being a social worker for Children’s Services,” I told my Niskam (God). The answer I will receive one month later from North Battleford, Saskatchewan, saying “I dreamt about Dad, he was holding a baby, his hair the colour of snow.” I know the colour white is a symbol of peace in my culture, so I know that Frank is at peace. The day of the burial and auction made me realize the immense appreciation I feel for my people, the thoughts I always try to convey on paper. His headstone reads, “Nukmijinen elmitklpukua’si kkatk, O maw kelu’sin nukmijinen Se’nt A’n alasutmelsewin” (Grandmother I kneel before you, O Good St. Ann pray for us). This is what I heard him say for thirty-five years.
The Mi'kmaq Anthology Page 25
