April Raintree

by Beatrice Mosionier

  When Cheryl got home, we decided to order pizza and have it delivered. Cheryl had news that she was quite sure she was going to be hired at a downtown factory, where she had put in an application that afternoon. She would have to phone back the following Monday. I asked her what she would be doing because I couldn’t see her working on an assembly line. She said she’d be doing a lot of different things but wouldn’t specify. What a waste, I thought to myself.

  That started me thinking of opening our own business, maybe a fashion boutique like the ones I used to visit on Yonge Street and in the Yorkville area of Toronto. From my shopping experiences with Mrs. Radcliff, I’d learned a lot. I could have learned more if I would have paid more attention. Or, perhaps we could open an employment service agency. Having worked through them, I had an idea how they operated. There were other businesses in which I could have invested my money. But the main reason why I didn’t persue those ideas any further, was because, no matter what kind of business, Cheryl would insist on involving somehow, native clientele.

  For the time being, I decided to return to temporary work because I didn’t want to be tied to a job until the whole rape ordeal was over and finished, nor did I want to stay around the house brooding over it.

  The snow had all gone and I hoped, that soon, Cheryl and I would be able to take walks down to the river. I thought about buying a boat but I wouldn’t know how to handle the whole process of ‘going boating’, so I dropped the idea. I would have to live on the memories of having gone sailing on Lake Ontario, with Bob and the others. That was a fun memory. Roger, Cheryl and I went out to celebrate my birthday. It wasn’t often when we did anything together. Cheryl still hadn’t brought over a single friend to our place. She went out a great deal. She would come home from work, have supper, change and go out again. I spent more and more time with Roger.

  In May, I was cleaning the house on a Friday because I didn’t have a job for that day. It was when I was collecting the garbage from Cheryl’s room that I came across an empty whisky bottle in her garbage container. I was shocked, the Implication of it being there, rushing into my head. Cheryl wouldn’t do that. Sneak drinks. So why the bottle? I tried to think of a number of reasons why she’d have a bottle in her room. I had never seen her even slightly drunk. Of course, we hadn’t seen much of each other, over the past few months. I decided I was making too much of it. We were getting along all right and I didn’t want to change that. Cheryl never did say anything to me, although she must have realized I had found the empty bottle when I had done the cleaning.

  A few weeks after this, I spotted a promotional piece in the newspaper about an Indian Pow Wow coming up. It would be good if Cheryl and I attended the festival, especially good for Cheryl. Perhaps it would renew her interest in native issues.

  That evening as soon as Cheryl came home from work, I asked, “Hey, Cheryl, what’s an Indian Pow Wow?”

  “Oh, it’s mostly a dancing competition among different tribes who come from all over the place.”

  “Are they interesting?”

  “Oh sure, I’ve been to several of them. I like going to them.”

  “Well, there’s going to be one in Roseau on the July 1st weekend. I’d like to go to it and see what it’s like. How about it? We could buy some camping stuff and make like we were teenagers again. Remember?”

  “You really want to go?”

  “Yeah, I really want to go.”

  “Okay, I’m glad you really want to go. You’ll finally rub shoulders with real Indians.” From the way she said that, I wasn’t sure if she was happy or just being sarcastic.

  I was quite anxious to go and then I thought of Roger’s brother, Joe. Funny that so many Indian boys were called Joe. Probably Catholic mothers naming their sons after Joseph, the foster father of Jesus. I wondered if Joe was married. Roger hadn’t said. I thought maybe I should invite Roger to bring his brother and join us for the Pow Wow. I’d have to ask him.

  I never did ask him, though. I had supper at his place not long after, and I was wondering about how to broach the subject but Roger had picked that night, to decide it was time we showed affection for each other. During the past weeks of seeing each other, I had subtly dissuaded him from giving me even a simple goodnight kiss. As far as I knew, Roger was most likely seeing other women, which was fine with me. Men, to my knowledge, did not tend to be celibate for long periods. And Roger and I were just good Mends. But on this particular night, he kept getting uncomfortably close. At one point I went over to look out the window but he followed me. He made me turn to face him and was about to kiss me.

  “Don’t touch me,” I heard myself say in a cold, icy voice that stopped him dead. He looked at me for a long time before he released me.

  “I’m sorry. I wanted for us to be just friends, that’s all, just good friends,” I said in a whispery voice.

  “Well, I wasn’t going to rape you, April. I can’t figure you out. I thought we had more than just a friendship going for us.” His voice was neutral and I couldn’t tell whether he was angry or hurt. After that, he served me coffee but our conversation was stifled. He saw me out to my car but this time he didn’t say he would call me. He just said goodnight.

  I had an appointment on June 1st, to see the Crown Attorney, Mr. Scott. I had already received a subpoena from an RCMP officer for the Preliminary Hearing. Mr. Scott’s office was in the basement of the Legislative Building. The police had explained some of the general court procedures but Mr. Scott went into further detail. For instance, as we went over my statement, he told me I was allowed to say things like ‘I smelled liquor on his breath’, but not ‘he was drunk’. It had to do with hearsay evidence. One could testify to what was directly known. Anyways, it was quite complicated to me and I worried about messing up my testimony. I also worried about the Defense Counsel misconstruing whatever I would say.

  On the day of the Hearing, I went to Stonewall, I reread my statement which Mr. Scott handed me. He reminded me of a few things and before I knew it we were at the Community Hall in Stonewall where the judicial process was carried out. Mr. Scott showed me to a small room where I was to wait for my turn to testify. By lunchtime, I still hadn’t been called and I was both bored and apprehensive.

  After lunch, I went over my statement again, although I loathed going over those words that told the story of that night. I was finally called to give my testimony and I started shaking as soon as I heard my name. My stomach had been tied up in knots all day but it tightened up even more by the time I was in the witness stand.

  Mr. Scott asked me to recount the events of January 11th, 1972. I did but minimized as much as I could. On occasion, he’d have me go into some of the details, like the rape itself. I couldn’t just say I had been raped. I had to describe the act itself. I tried at all times to look only at his eyes or his lips as they moved, pretending I was talking only to him and that no one else was there. Of course, I could feel their eyes boring into me. I knew darn well there were others in that room, listening to what I was saying. When that thought would overwhelm me, my voice would fade out and the court stenographer would ask me to repeat myself. I wondered what those other people were thinking. It wasn’t just simply a matter that a horrible degradation had happened to me. The thing was, I had been part of it. I’m sure that’s what they all thought, even if unwillingly. I had been part of that depraved sexual activity. I had known in advance that I would have to use explicit words when referring to private parts of the anatomy. And I had come across those words as well as the slang words in the past. But to me, to say them out loud, in front of all those people, well, I faltered every time I had to say them. In the future, I would better understand why some women chose not to seek justice in the courtrooms.

  Then I was questioned by the Defense Counsel, Mr. Schneider. He sounded skeptical, at times, even sarcastic. He made different insinuations which made me feel defensive. I felt like it was I, who was on trial by the time he was through with me. He persisted in
making me go into depth on some of the incidents and I believed it was just to make me say those words I had stuttered on. I understood full well that it was his job to defend his client in any way he could, but I also felt what he did to me was morally wrong.

  After I was allowed off the stand, a recess was called. I headed straight for the washroom. Once there, I threw up. One woman had been in there already. As she helped me, she expressed sympathy. I wished for the moment, that I could stay in the washroom until everyone was gone. I fixed my makeup, braced myself and returned to the courtroom, very grateful that, at least, one person sympathized with me.

  The court ruled that there was sufficient evidence to proceed with a trial. That’s what the Preliminary Hearing was for. The court also ordered a ban on the publication of evidence which meant I would still have my privacy. On our way back to Winnipeg, Mr. Scott was in good spirits because he had been successful. I was just relieved that this portion was over and done with. There was still the trial ahead.

  Cheryl and I left early Saturday morning for Roseau River. We parked where there was a camping area set aside. As we made our way to the main area, we noticed license plates from Montana, the Dakotas, Minnesota and even Arizona. Men, women and children were in traditional tribal costumes. Somewhere in the background, drums could be heard, sounding the heartbeat of the people. Teepees had been set up and Indian women in buckskin dresses now tended to fires, making bannock for curious onlookers.

  The main events, as Cheryl had said, were the dance competitions. During the intervals, everyone was invited to participate in the dancing. Cheryl joined in but I stayed on the sidelines. That night, we sat, Indian style, around a bonfire, listening to the songs and tales of Indian singers. Cheryl told me that was probably how it had felt on those long-ago buffalo hunts. I was impressed by all the sights and sounds. It went deeper than just stirrings of pride, regret and even an inner peace. For the first time in my life, I felt as if all of that was part of me, as if I was a part of it. It was curious to feel that way. I had gone expecting to feel embarrassment, maybe even contempt. I looked over at Cheryl. She, too, seemed finally relaxed.

  She was deep in conversation with some people on the other side of her. I didn’t attempt to join their conversation. I was happy enough just to see the old animation on Cheryl’s face as she gestured and talked with her companions. Earlier that evening, an Indian family had set up their tent next to ours and had come over to offer help. At the end of the ceremonies, Cheryl and I returned to our tent.

  “Well, did you enjoy yourself?” Cheryl asked.

  “Yes… but, in this atmosphere, everything is staged. It’s romanticized. On Monday we’ll go home and to what? I’ll go back to see the drunken Indians on Main Street and I’ll feel the same shame. It’s like having two worlds in my life that can’t be mixed. And I’ve made my choice on how I want to live my everyday life.”

  After pausing to think this over, Cheryl said, “Yeah, but Indian blood runs through your veins, April. To deny that, you deny a basic part of yourself. You’ll never be satisfied until you can accept that fact.”

  “How do you do it, Cheryl? How is it that you’re so proud when there’s so much against being a native person?”

  “For one thing, I don’t see it that way. Maybe I have put too much faith in my dreams. But if alcohol didn’t have such a destructive force on us, we’d be a fabulous people. And that’s what I see. I see all the possibilities that we have. Nancy, for instance, you never did think much of her when I was attending university, did you? Well, she does drink and does other things that you would never dream of doing. But she also holds a steady job and she’s been at minimum wage for a long time. They use her and she knows it. And she gets depressed about it. But with her education and the way things are, she knows she doesn’t have many choices. She helps support her mother and her sister and a brother. The reason why she left home in the first place was her father. He was an alcoholic who beat her mother up and raped Nancy. Okay, she doesn’t have much. Maybe she never will have much, but what she’s got she shares with her family. And she’s not an exception.”

  “I didn’t know that,” I said. We sat for a time in silence, before I spoke again.

  “When we lived with our parents, I used to take you to the park. The white kids would call the native kids all sorts of names. If they had let us, I would have played with the white kids. Never the native kids. To me, the white kids were the winners all the way. I guess what I feel today started back then. It would take an awful lot for me to be able to change what I’ve felt for a lifetime. Shame doesn’t dissolve overnight.

  “I can understand that. I’ve been identifying with the Indian people ever since I was a kid. The Metis people share more of the same problems with the Indian people. But one of the things that Indian people had which was theirs from the beginning was spirituality. That’s why it’s easier to identify with them.

  “I wrote this one piece in university but they wouldn’t publish it because they said it was too controversial. I still know it by heart. Want to hear it?”

  “Sure,” I said. There was little in our conversation we hadn’t discussed before, but sitting there in our tent, surrounded by proud Indians, everything seemed different.

  White Man, to you my voice is like the unheard call in the wilderness. It is there, though you do not hear. But, this once, take the time to listen to what I have to say.

  Your history is highlighted by your wars. Why is it all right for your nations to conquer each other in your attempts at dominion? When you sailed to our lands, you came with your advanced weapons. You claimed you were a progressive, civilized people.

  And today, White Man, you have the ultimate weapons. Warfare which could destroy all men, all creation. And you allow such power to be in the hands of those few who have such little value in true wisdom.

  White Man, when you first came, most of our tribes began with peace and trust in dealing with you. We showed you how to survive in our homelands. We were willing to share with you our vast wealth.

  Instead of repaying us with gratitude, you, White Man, turned on us. You turned on us with your advanced weapons and your cunning trickery.

  When we, the Indian people, realized your intentions, we rose to do battle, to defend our nations, our homes, our food, our lives.

  And for our efforts, we are labelled savages and our battles are called massacres.

  And when our primitive weapons could not match thosewhich you had years and experience to perfect, we realized that peace could not be won, unless our mass destruction took place.

  And so we looked to treaties. And this time, we ran into your cunning trickery. And so, we lost our lands, our freedom, and we were confined to reservations.

  And we are held in contempt.

  “As long as the Sun shall rise.…” For you, White Man, these are words without meaning.

  White Man, there is much in the deep, simple wisdom of our forefathers. We were here for centuries. We kept the land, the waters, the air, clean and pure, for our children and for our children’s children.

  Now that you are here, White Man, the rivers bleed with contamination. The winds moan with the heavy weight of pollution in the air.

  The land vomits up the poisons which have been fed into it.

  Our Mother Earth is no longer clean and healthy. She is dying.

  White Man, in your greedy rush for money and power, you are destroying. Why must you have power over everything? Why can’t you live in peace and harmony? Why can’t you share the beauty and the wealth which Mother Earth has given us?

  You do not stop at confining us to small pieces of rock and muskeg.

  Where are the animals of the wilderness to go, when there is no more wilderness?

  Why are the birds of the skies, falling to their extinction?

  Is there joy for you, when you bring down the mighty trees of our forests?

  No living thing seems sacred to you. In the name of progress, ever
ything is cut down. And progress means only profits.

  White Man, you say that we are a people without dignity. But when we are sick, weak, hungry, poor, when there is nothing for us, but death, what are we to do?

  We cannot accept a life which you have imposed on us.

  You say that we are drunkards, that we live for drinking. But drinking is a way of dying. Dying without enjoying life.

  You have given us many diseases. It is true that you have found immunizations for many of these diseases. But this was done more for your own benefit.

  The worst disease, for which there is no immunity, is the disease of alcoholism. And you condemn us for being its easyvictims.

  And those who do not condemn us, weep for us and pity us.

  So, we the Indian people, we are still dying. The land we lost is dying, too.

  White Man, you have our land now.

  Respect it. As we once did.

  Take care of it. As we once did.

  Love it. As we once did.

  White Man, our wisdom is dying. As we are. But take heed, if Indian wisdom dies, you, White Man, will not be far behind.

  So weep not for us.

  Weep for yourselves.

  And for your children.

  And for their children.

  Because you are taking everything today.

  And tomorrow, there will be nothing left for them.

  To me, Cheryl’s message was emotional and powerful. When she finished, we sat in silence. The only sounds were those of the crickets. Somewhere in the distance, a child began to cry.

  CHAPTER 14

  After that long weekend, I tried to keep the feeling I had alive, even though I was back in the city. I noticed Cheryl had gotten some good out of it, too, because she made more appearances around the house. She also seemed more relaxed, more willing to discuss events concerning native people that appeared in the newspaper and on television. No matter what the issues were, she always found some way to defend the native side of the question. Now when she began telling me that she was going to the Friendship Centre, I knew without doubt that she was indeed going there. The old fire had been rekindled. Cheryl began tearing clippings out of the paper, presumably to act on them, if possible. For Cheryl, I knew it was probable.