She kissed him slowly, exploring until she found his tongue. With her eyes on his, he moaned when she kneeled, taking him in. Her mouth hot on his skin. He lost himself in the sensation of the heat of her tongue. He moaned, keened, allowed himself to release, calling her name.
She trembled at his touch. The primal scent of sex filled the room. They said nothing as they rested and fell asleep entwined there on the floor.
l
The two of them in a restaurant on a mountainside in West Vancouver. All cedar, West surrounded in West Coast Native art. The view spectacular. The lights on the distant ships were framed by the lights of Spanish Banks, Musqueam First Nation, the University Endowment Lands.
Leah opened an ache in Ray’s chest as he looked at her intently, instead of at the places she pointed out in the distance.
“Tell me how you were as a child.”
“Ray, it’s a sad story. It’ll be hard for me to tell. Maybe this will help me to remember some things.”
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“I grew up thinking I was white, in white neighbourhoods. All-white grade schools. But knowing I was very different. I didn’t learn the same way. See things the same way.
“Years later, I came home from high school one day After learning about what happened to Indian people. I had seen the play Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee. Every kid in that high-school play was white. Not one Indian acted in that play.
“I was possessed by the story. The awful naked truth of it. It enraged my being. I took my outrage home to my father. He got really, really still.” He said, “I will tell you this because you are showing respect. We are Indian. You are Indian.” That hit me like a fist in my belly.
“I knew the truth of it in every cell of my body. I am Indian. And for years, that reality lay as still as my father; waiting.”
Leah was momentarily lost in a familiar fathomless black hole of hopelessness and grief, The sense of loss of a priceless way of life she would never know. Inconsolable, sorrow tore through her. She envisioned a tidal wave reaching shore and erasing, leaving only nothingness in its wake. She trembled, wiped a single hot tear.
“Indians on the Coast, like elsewhere, weren’t treated well, rarely given jobs. It must have been hard. If you could pass for white, you did it. Then you could get work, and your family could eat. You could choose to fight in a war without being made to revoke your Indian status.
“I understand now why my father didn’t embrace his heritage. But it made it damned hard for me to make that journey to my Nativeness. It also made it impossible for me not to! Like water, I had to seek and carve. And like a deep current, push and pull my identity out of an unknown depth.”
The server interrupted.
“One Seafood Tower for two. Chilled smoked salmon. Fresh oysters. Chilled prawns. Seafood bowl with clams, mussels, prawns, salmon and halibut in lemongrass coconut broth. And alder-grilled bannock bread. Alder-grilled sockeye, halibut and prawns, with tomato and eggplant confit and grilled asparagus.”
He put it down with a flourish.
“I could never stop searching. For my Native self. I immersed myself in my cultures. Went deep, into the languages, the beliefs. I found our village on the Coast. What our language was called. I went and shared it with my father. Tears ran down his face. It was the only time I ever saw him cry. He was silent a long time. I stood there with my heart in my mouth. Then finally, he said, “I should have known you would be the one to find this out. You are the one with the dreams. We are from the Coast north of Vancouver.”
She finally looked to the food and took an oyster. He watched her take another couple. She shook her head, looking down.
“So many people I’ve met ask me to help them satisfy the same yearning. How on earth do they sense that I can help them get home? Some who ask are Sixties Scoop kids, adopted out. Some, like me, had parents who thought they could forget being Native. But somewhere, their Indianness, even a generation or two later, shape-shifts and spills out, floods, until the person’s heart and spirit drives them forward to know. Who they are, where they’re from. An elder once said to me, ‘It isn’t about blood quantum. It’s about having the receivers built in to get those transmissions – those messages from your people in the next world.’ I loved that.”
Ray was nodding and let go of her hand to serve himself some salmon.
“So, I became a ‘home finder’ for people who remind me of the waves of a strong, changing tide. Pushed forward and pulled back until they beach on the shore of their truth. This is why I love the Charlie family. They welcomed me. Never questioned my identity. I loved how everyone up North knows exactly how they’re related. Right out to about sixth cousins! Let’s enjoy the rest of this food now.”
He smiled, his mouth evidently full. Leah wanted to climb over the table, wriggle into his lap, and kiss him stupid. She wanted to take him home again. She knew she could drive her fear away when she was on top of him.
“Leah, I’m flying out at five tomorrow. Can we finish the interview? I’d like to spend a bit of time on the North. How the Tlingit-Tagish cultures impacted a woman from the Saltwater People.”
“I’m surprised you know that name. Yes, we can certainly do that. I have time tomorrow. If you like, I can give you a lift to the airport.”
Leah felt ridiculously happy. She hadn’t felt like this for a long time, hopeful, and she wanted much, much more.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Today
Saturday? (I am losing track). I am thinking about identity. I wonder about how things were back in the days before colonization, how every culture was distinct. Our cultures have become homogenized, in some ways. I think homogenization is good for milk. Most of us are lactose intolerant. Like so many Coastal Indians I know have a dreamcatcher in their car, even though they were created by Plains people. Out of the belief that their nightmares could be caught. Not disturb their spirits in their sleep. Yet even lots of white folks have them. Are they trying to prevent having awake nightmares while driving?
All of us are homogenized, especially urban Indians. I don’t know if this is bad or good – it just makes me feel it wasn’t so much that way in the past. People had their unique languages, regalia. You could tell who someone was by what they wore.
Salish were Salish and practised Big House and their unique sacred ways. They had their own purification ceremony.
I guess long ago, if we visited the territory of the Plains people, they may have invited us into a sweat lodge, and to a Sundance or other sacred ceremonies. By the sounds of it, all the Nations had their own practises, some were similar. Dakota Sioux Sundance. There, I met lots of different people from all kinds of Nations. I asked a Nish woman if their dance was practised the same way. She told me the differences, and they were many. The Cree people again have a similar ceremony; but again, the way is different.
At least with the homogenized Nations, one thing I know that remains unchanged. We are not selfish with our ceremonies. Long ago, visitors and those who were adopted from elsewhere could attend. This is the same now. There is controversy, though.
l
Leah was a little relieved that this would be the last day with Ray. She was falling for him and hard. She knew it was too soon after Phil. She didn’t want to think about that. She needed a little time. Time to sit with that journal. To watch those reels that were calling to her. The few she had seen had catapulted her back in time. Created a longing to know what it was she was not able to recall. The strange and unknown reason that she could not remember writing in the old journal. She heard Ray in the shower, singing.
Needing to write out some thoughts, she pulled her new journal to her.
l
I’m feeling lost, but don’t want to think about that. I long for ceremony. Some believe whites should not be allowed to practise any ceremonies, let alone lead them. Some believe they should not be allowed to attend. If I had my own ceremonies, I would just listen to the Ol
d Ones and do as they guided me.
In ceremony, you must face your fear. I have so much fear these days, would I be able to face it? Courageously? I hope that’s what ceremony people are doing nowadays, not just inviting whites because they have more money than Indians. Like that guy running a Sundance who charged people $3,000 to attend or be part of it. That’s something disturbing. Some mainstream people don’t value anything that does not come with a price.
Our ceremonies come with a huge price that Indians know about. Responsibility. The knowledge that we are carrying the ceremony all year long. They don’t just last a certain number of days. We know we must conduct ourselves like we are in ceremony all year long. That’s why I have avoided them – holy people. They’re just far too much work to be around. It’s far too much pressure to behave for that length of time. Maybe truly becoming who we are, really who we are, is ceremony. Maybe that’s the most sacred ceremony of them all. Maybe this is the ceremony I need, to become who I truly am. How do I do that when so much of me is missing?
l
Ray was making her breakfast. Something inside her nagged like a raven voice. “Look, look, look” but, so far, she could not see. It was relentless. She was driven. Driven to know why. Why was a piece of her lost? It was truly eerie. Each time she thought of it, she felt electricity fly up from her feet to her brain. The jolt propelled her to find the answers. For now, she would spend the last day with Ray, take him to the airport. This evening, she would get back to the films, to the journal. She would miss him. Badly.
She was absolutely determined to retrieve herself. The answer lay within. The journal and films would help her to reclaim the truth. The young Cree man’s face drifted before her. She recalled his words. But was hers a truth she wanted to know? It almost didn’t matter. She had to. She had to know.
l
Ray had breakfast all laid out when she walked, wet-haired, into the kitchen. “I could get used to this.” He looked away and did not answer. Her heart sank a little.
She was checking her texts when she said, “Okay, hike and coffee? Or a final interview in a new coffee house?”
“Hike and coffee, definitely!”
“I’ll take you to Lynn Canyon.”
“I like the name. I’m in your hands.”
Feeling vulnerable, Leah was in deep now; could not draw herself back. She now knew why moths were drawn to flames. Not helpless, not unable – only unwilling to resist a lure. She had knowingly dived into this fire, without fear, compelled. There was no way back from her strong feelings for Ray now. She felt him looking at her as she drove across the Lions Gate Bridge. He looked away and down, trying to imagine what this land looked like before contact, just a few hundred years ago.
“Tell me about yourself, Ray; I’ve been doing an awful lot of talking.”
“Well, okay, what is it you’d like to know?”
“About growing up, your family, how you experienced being a mixed blood. Or,” she laughed, “as I like to call it, an exotic hybrid.”
“I was a bit of a weird kid.”
“How so?”
“I loved the bush, wandered all around for miles on my own.”
“Sounds idyllic.”
“Not in bear country.” They both laughed at the Native-style joke, alluding to a thing, allowing her to come to her own conclusion. “I seem to attract them, but I don’t really like to.”
She grinned at his wording. He fell serious again, trying to articulate.
“I love my mother and sisters; I love the women in my family, in my clan. I love the strength, the humour, the bossiness, the knowing they have about what’s right and what’s wrong. I love it when they tell me what to do. Wolf women just have that way of knowing, and I am glad I got that, and that I can appreciate how they guide me.”
Leah smiled encouragingly at him, focused on the off-ramp. “My father is quiet. My brother is a lot like him. Both Mom and Dad wanted more children, but my mother couldn’t after my little brother; it just about killed her.
“I didn’t see Mom’s family much. Dad insisted we live in his home village. I don’t know really why Mom agreed. You know how unusual is in the North for the woman to follow the man. My parents were not as traditional as others, although they did continue all the practises of the land. Like fish camp and such. My sisters are a blast. We always had a lot of fun. They were older, so my brother and I were their dolls.”
Leah knew what this meant. Indian jokes were about letting you see in your imagination. Ray shook his head ruefully.
“My sisters still tease my brother and me within an inch of our lives. But you know how it is with Indians. How they show they love us.”
“My sisters got educations, but they came back home to work in the village. They’re pretty attached to the place. My brother and I live in Whitehorse. We’re very close, live in the same apartment building, see each other every day. In fact, we don’t lock our doors. It’s easier because we’re always back and forth.
“We both go home to the village a lot. Mom isn’t well anymore, she had a stroke, hasn’t been the same since.”
“I’m sorry, that’s hard.”
“It really is. She can’t do what she used to. It’s pretty tough on her. My sisters are pretty wonderful. They involve her in everything. They pretend they don’t know much, ask her a lot of questions. Like if they’re cleaning fish, they’ll go through it with her step-by-step. She plays along. It’s sweet.
“Dad still hunts. They still go out to fish camp. Though my sisters take direction from Mom, she doesn’t say much. We can tell she has a hard time sitting and watching when there are things to be done.”
Leah took the off-ramp to West Vancouver. Not liking how far the housing had crawled up the mountain to the edge of the parklands.
Ray didn’t notice the change of direction. He was back in the wall tent at the fish camp, remembering.
“You know, I used to envy people who moved around, travelled from place to place. I wanted to see all those places I read about. But there, out at fish camp, or at the hunting cabin, there’s this deep feeling of being connected and part of something that is enduring. That makes me glad I grew up the way I did. It wasn’t perfect, we didn’t always have what we wanted. But Mom and Dad always made sure we never went hungry and tried to make sure we had all we needed.
“I grew up like most kids in villages, listening to CBC North. Batteries for the radio were a number one on the shopping list!”
Leah remembered the importance of the news, and that one and only lifeline to the world – “outside,” as Yukoners always referred to anyplace outside the Yukon.
“So, I always wondered how they did that radio thing. How voices came out of the little black box, when all you did was put batteries in it? In grade four, we had a choice of where to go on a field trip to Whitehorse. Of course, there weren’t many places to go. We’d already seen the museum, Miles Canyon, the fish ladder. I suggested a tour of the CBC. I was so excited! I couldn’t wait. We got off the bus in our town clothes – I had one set of clothes that was only for town. I remember pulling up on the Fourth Avenue and seeing the CBC Radio sign. I don’t know what I expected.”
He shook his head.
“It seemed so small, but I was absolutely captivated. The walls of equipment, the huge microphones hanging like big spiders from the ceiling. It amazed me that a man was sitting in one of those studios, speaking into the microphone, and it was being heard in cabins and on traplines, and in wall tents all over the territory. That magic I fell in love with right there. I knew what I wanted to do. I had to come outside to study broadcasting. I loved every part of it.
“After training at CHON-FM, the Native station in White-horse – oh, of course you know it – I had my mind set to work at the Haines Junction community radio station, since no full-time job was open in Whitehorse. It was such a blast – if someone didn’t like what I was playing, they’d stomp right in and tell me, ‘Take that thing off right now!�
�� I learned not to mute the microphone; the listeners got a kick out of that live comedy, because they could recognize the voice. There was one drunk guy that hated anything but old country music. I didn’t like old country; I’d heard enough of it growing up! This guy would come unhinged every time I played anything else. We got to be good friends. He taught me to have an appreciation for old country. I volunteered at first, and finally got a job at CHON. But CBC felt like the big fish.
“It took a long time, but I made friends there. And by the time there was a retirement, I pretty much told them I was taking over the job, and I did. I love it. Nothing about it is boring. I get to pretty much do what I want with my show. This piece we are working on? Whitehorse is working on getting it aired nationally.”
Leah’s heart skipped and sped. She was not sure she was ready for that but said nothing. She merged the vehicle onto the Upper Levels Highway. Cypress Provincial Park. She needed the mountains today.
“I changed my mind,” she said, “about the canyon. There are too many people there, and it isn’t as if the two of us haven’t seen our share of rivers. This’ll be a good hike; the view is lovely at the top. We could both use some mountain air today.”
Ray smiled, gave her the universal Indian nod, chin up.
They climbed in silence. A good silence. Inhaled sweet alpine air. It was a perfect day for a hike, cool with no rain. No other hikers on the way up. They took it slow; he could tell by her breathing that she had asthma. It was wonderful to be up high and still climbing. The sun came out. She looked around at the low alpine fauna. Up here the sun was warm, almost hot. The air was clean, holding the fragrance of a hundred layers of green.
“You know, this really reminds me of home.” She stopped. With her arm she made an arc, motioning to the path ahead and the bushes on the right.
“It’s almost a Yukonesque view at the top as long as you aren’t looking ocean side.”
The Silence Page 7