Now and then, there’d be fights in the parking lot. The combatants who squared off generally ended up with nothing more than a bloody nose or a black eye. After the fight, both sides would disappear to celebrate or to grouse, depending on the outcome. There was never a rumble or a riot.
One by one, the Freaks got jobs, settled into relationships or left town. The Night Stalkers drifted off to university or college. Our harmless teenage tribalism had marked none of us. It was a stark contrast to the gang era we live in now.
Aboriginal gangs flourish today in the concrete rez of Canada’s prisons, the low-income neighbourhoods of cities and in reserve communities themselves. They emulate the big-city gangs of the United States with their tattoos, their graffiti, their clothing, their music, their gang signs and their violence. They proclaim themselves as warriors, but there’s nothing warrior-like about them. In Native tradition, a warrior is honoured for living a principled life, standing up for the people and working to sustain them. There is none of that in an Aboriginal gang. Nor is there any true Native pride, just a dismal caricature and the costly struggle to maintain it. Lives are lost, homes disrupted, communities destroyed. These gangs are a blight, yet our Native politicians seldom mention them. They rarely talk about those slain in random shootings and knifings or those lost to addiction, prostitution or prison. They remain quiet about the sad irony of our own people killing and oppressing each other. They don’t mention the kids who’ve had their childhoods taken away.
We need a gang mentality to offset gang mentality. We need the whole gang of us, this community of human beings, to reach back into the traditional teachings of our cultures and pass those principles on to our youth. They are our future. They are the future of the planet, and they need our input and our guiding energy if they are to assume control of our human destiny with dignity and pride. It’s not just a Native thing—it’s a human thing. The trick, in the end, is that by teaching them we reaffirm the same teachings for ourselves. The whole gang of us moving forward in peace.
How to Change the World
AN ELDER FRIEND once taught me something crucial about how to change the world. I was in my early thirties, just becoming politically active in pursuit of Native rights. By then, my comprehension of Native issues had grown to encompass the environment, hunting, education, employment, spiritual empowerment and the use of traditional science, a list far beyond treaty rights, land claims and constitutional issues.
The elder and I were walking by a river as we visited. Her name was Lorraine Sinclair. She’d founded the Mother Earth Healing Society, an organization seeking to build a diverse community of people around the desire to return the planet to balance and harmony. She was recognized as a wise and learned woman, and I sought her advice often. That day, I described my frustration at pushing forward our people’s agenda. The magnitude of the issues was daunting. As a journalist, I feared my work would never be finished. We were beset by far more problems than there were practical solutions, it seemed, and the situation was agonizing and exhausting.
Lorraine listened attentively, as she always did. We walked a long way along that river, and I waited as patiently as I could for her words. I expected her to prop me up, to offer praise for my efforts. I expected to leave with an emotional and spiritual band-aid firmly in place. What I got from her was far more.
As we paused by a pool in the river, Lorraine took up a pebble and tossed it in. In silence, we watched the ripples eddy outward in concentric rings and lap the stones at our feet. “That’s the way you change the world,” she said. “The smallest circles first.”
Creator built us of energy and spirit. Beneath our flesh and bones are molecules, atoms and neutrons spinning in a nonstop cosmic dance. That is the truth of our physical reality, so one small act can have wide-ranging consequences. That’s what she showed me. Do what you can where you can. Think less of the big picture than of what is achievable right now. Do whatever needs doing with a grateful heart and a mind clear of expectation. That’s how you change the world.
Almost a quarter of a century later, I’m still pondering her message. I thought of Lorraine’s words again not long ago, in connection with a new tradition Deb and I have started at our house. It’s really an old tradition that we’ve dusted off and revived. It’s a ritual that hearkens back to the days when people would gather in their homes to tell stories, read to each other and sing songs. It predates television, computers and cell phones.
We share a potluck dinner first. We never ask anyone to bring a particular dish; we’re grateful for whatever arrives. The night of our first gathering, we had an incredible feast. Everywhere you looked there were people talking and eating and having a great time. When the meal was over, the main event got started. I walked around with an old hat, and everyone who chose to dropped in a slip of paper with their name on it. After Debra and I had welcomed everybody and sung a song, we drew the first name out of the hat, and that person sat in our antique rocker and did her thing. There were eighteen of us that night. Deb and I had invited a few friends, and they had spread the word, so the people who came were mostly strangers to us and each other. But there was a feeling of safety and community in our living room that night.
Everyone had the chance to tell a story, sing a song, read something they’d written, read something that had moved them or introduce a special piece of recorded music. We sat in candlelight, with the fire in the woodstove crackling, and we were awed by what came out.
We heard a touching story about homelessness and setting down roots from a man who lives down the way. He and I had never spoken before, only nodded at each other when we passed on the road. But his words were riveting. They showed him to be a man with a history much like mine. Without that gathering, I might never have had the privilege of learning that. We listened to folk songs performed on a six-string guitar and a blues song accompanied only by hand claps. People told stories about childhood, the spirituality of fly fishing and the trials of war. One person read a poem for the earth.
As the evening progressed, people sank deeper into their chairs. The silence between offerings was an oration in itself. There was no need for booze, loud music, video games or other contemporary distractions. Instead, we luxuriated in the old-time feeling of togetherness.
Deb and I have held similar gatherings every month since. Everyone who comes leaves feeling more complete, more attuned to their neighbours. Community happens that way, people coming together for a common purpose. That’s what Lorraine meant when she said “the smallest circles first.” One ripple at a time: that’s how we will change the world.
What Marriage Means
I WAS TWENTY-FOUR the first time I got married. I had no clear idea at the time of where I wanted my life to go, and I hoped my wife would be an anchor holding me in place long enough for that realization to come. But that’s not the role of a wife, and we were battling the crippling disease of my alcoholism then, too. I hadn’t suffered enough yet to want to get sober. I still believed that I was young and indestructible and that life would always throw new beginnings at me. I thought drinking was manly. I thought everyone drank the same way I did.
My first wife was an artist, a dancer. She sparkled with energy, and that was what drew me to her. As long as I was in her company, I believed that I would sparkle, too. Sometimes it worked; I would flare and accomplish great things. But the depth of my shadow self was always stronger. Eventually I exhausted her patience and her faith. We were divorced in absentia, because she didn’t know where I was.
When I married the second time, I was forty-three. I’d had periods of sobriety by then, some as long as a year, but I still didn’t understand that my drinking was the symptom of a greater ill. I’d become an award-winning newspaper columnist, a television writer and host and a first-time novelist. But the wounds that drove me to push for success also drove me to alcohol. I thought that love could save me. I thought that the magic of romance would rescue me. I was drunk when I met my seco
nd wife for the first time, and I was drunk when I said “I do.” There was never any hope for that union. It ended quickly and bitterly.
Now, at fifty-four, I have a productive, creative life rooted to a home in the mountains and a woman who is my best friend. I don’t drink anymore. I found people to help me. I looked under the bed and confronted the monsters that lurked there and took away their power. I spend a lot of time now trying to help others find their own way to grace. By helping them, I help myself.
Debra has never tried to save me. When I fell, she was strong enough to let me flail until I found my footing again. She fought her own battle with the bottle and has been sober now for almost a decade. Watching her, I found the example I needed. She is resilient. Iron-willed. Grateful for being on this earth. Committed to a life that has no room for booze, for self-inflicted misery or ghosts. What I saw in her, I wanted for myself. Bit by bit, I laboured toward the same place.
Love is not about rescue, I understand now—it’s about allowing. In the Ojibway world, love is the process of you leading me back to who I am. You do that by stepping back and allowing the creative, nurturing energy of the universe to work. That’s the most courageous thing you can do when you love somebody. Deb showed me that. Both of us knew we’d found communion with one another. We’re loyal to the vision of our togetherness.
When Deb and I decided to get married, we held the ceremony in our yard. In the beginning, we’d envisioned a small wedding with a few close friends. But as word got out, we got phone calls and emails from people requesting invitations. In the end, on that spectacular sunny day in July, there were fifty of us. Some people had come a long way. Some were from our community at the lake, and others made the short drive from Kamloops. A good friend who is a marriage commissioner performed the ceremony. Deb and I read the vows we had written. We stood in the midst of that circle of people who love us and became husband and wife. Later, we shared a potluck meal, a homemade wedding cake, music and the joy of being connected in the energy of something special.
We exchanged rings in the ceremony, but we also tied eagle feathers together. To me, those feathers stand for commitment. They are a symbol of the courage that allowed me to change my life and the courage that allows me to continue on this path. They are symbols of honour and justice, of the coming together of equals. They are a symbol of faith, the act of believing in the grace and love of a higher being, a God, a Creator, a Great Spirit. The feathers are something of my culture I value highly. They are an outward sign of the depth of the vows I took that day.
Being a husband is an honour and a responsibility. The ring on my finger reminds me of that. The eagle feathers that hang in our house exemplify it. They are strong in themselves, but they are made stronger by virtue of being tied together. This time around, the word “husband” means something very special to me.
Families
TOLSTOY WROTE THAT all happy families are alike, but each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. I’m not familiar with the details of Russian family life in the 1800s, but I know that Count Leo was on to something. I’ve been around for over half a century now. I’ve spent time in hundreds of homes and witnessed thousands of interactions between people bound by blood. I’ve been in homes where silence rules and anger simmers under everything. I’ve visited families whose simple, abundant love for each other fills me with awe. Good or bad, they’ve all taught me something.
At our home in the mountains, my family consists of Debra and me, Molly the dog and a host of friends. My extended family is huge now. As a good friend puts it, I have a big chosen family.
I was separated from my Native family as a toddler. For years, I had no idea where I came from or who my people were. When I reconnected with them twenty-four years later, we had to get to know each other again. Each of us had experienced a lot of pain in our lives, and a lot of broken trust. We bore all of that back into the mix, so our time together was often pretty glum.
Life with my adopted family was horrendous. As staunch, strict Presbyterians, they knew nothing about Native history, spirituality, tradition or culture. They knew nothing of the abuse I’d already suffered. Their efforts to make me fit their ideal filled me with anger and resentment, and I ran away as soon as I could.
When I married my first wife, I was introduced to an extraordinary family of people who genuinely cared about each other. They accepted me as one of them, and for a time I felt as though I actually belonged somewhere. When my marriage ended because of my alcoholism, I mourned the loss of that family as deeply as I mourned the loss of my wife.
I’ve visited homes that had great fist-sized holes in the walls. I’ve also had friends and lovers whose family homes were obsessively ordered and immaculate. In those homes, I was never sure where to place my feet, and the conversation was as stiff as the plastic on the sofa. Recently, Deb and I sat on our deck talking with a good friend. He’s South African by birth. He’s not someone you’d categorize as conflicted if you saw him on the street. He’s trim and fit with an open face and an engaging manner. He’s terrifically funny, whip-smart, open-minded, adventurous, opinionated and engaged with the world. When he told us his story of growing up, I was dumbfounded.
Our friend described a great gulf between brothers created by extraordinary differences in their worldviews and their approach to living. He told us about physical, mental, emotional and spiritual damage that had created gaps seemingly impossible to bridge. Maybe it was the shadow of apartheid he grew up in, or maybe it was just the natural separation that occurs in families as we grow, but he sensed the rift and felt helpless to bridge it. His people felt like strangers to him and to each other, he said. He reflected on his family’s lack of real conversation, their inability to express any emotion other than anger, the lone liness he had felt in that house. He talked quietly, bearing the weight of his story on his shoulders.
When there’s pain in our lives, we tend to believe that we’re the only ones. Often we keep that pain to ourselves out of embarrassment or shame. But when we do that, we put ourselves out of the reach of those who might help us. As I listened to my friend’s story, feeling waves of empathy, understanding and compassion flow through me, I realized again that we can create family with anyone. We all need a place to share, and it’s through sharing and listening that we heal.
When my people say that it takes a community to raise a child, they mean a group of spirits working in concert. They mean a people committed to honouring the individual and, consequently, to honouring all. They mean the human family. All of us are members, and we owe it to each other to respect and honour that.
WEST
INTROSPECTION
ON THE MEDICINEWheel, introspection is the “looks within place.” Humility and trust offer many teachings, and introspection is a means of seeing how those apply to our lives. It’s a place of vision. It’s a resting place where the story, the song each of us has created up to this moment can be inspected and those things deemed unnecessary be let go. It’s a place of courage, because the hardest place to look is within. Many people stop here, deterred by the trials of the journey and the sudden hurts that sometimes make life hard. But introspection is meant to bring us to balance. It is the place where all things are ordered, where all things ring true at the same time. Balance allows us to move forward, and when we do, the journey becomes wondrous again by virtue of our ability to see the whole trail.
Impossible Blue
THERE’S A SPECIAL shade of blue that appears where the sun meets the horizon every morning. It sits in that mysterious space where darkness meets light, where night begins its brightening into day. My people call this time of day Beedahbun, first light, but there’s no word for that particular colour, an off-purple fading into blue grey. You need to sacrifice some sleep and comfort in order to be out under the sky when that colour emerges, and not many people are motivated to do it. That’s sad. For me, that colour is gateway to the spiritual realm.
I discovered that for t
he first time in 1985, when I was one of a group of aspiring storytellers gathered on Manitoulin Island. We had gone there for ten days to sit with elders, hear traditional stories and teachings and figure out how to incorporate those into our contemporary work in theatre, fiction and poetry.
The elders told us on the first night that it was the desire, the yearning we carried, that would make all things possible. The elders were so calm. They felt so grounded. When they walked, they seemed to move in a shroud of silence. I wanted that depth of connection to myself and to the world, so I was determined to listen carefully and follow their directions.
One of the first things they instructed us to do was to get ourselves outside early in the morning. We weren’t supposed to use an alarm clock or ask anyone else to ensure that we woke. Instead, we were to harness our desire and use that energy to get us up on time—to intuit when the time was right. Those instructions felt strange to me then. I was struggling hard to survive in my city life, and I wasn’t used to integrating traditional teachings. This would be my first real test. The elders wanted us to face east as first light came up over the trees. We were to sit there without speaking and watch, then later to tell them the story of what we saw there.
The first morning was chilly. It was late October, frosty, the taste of snow in the wind and a scrim of ice at the edge of the small lake. It was hard sitting on a cold rock waiting for first light to break. I’d had no coffee, and the clothes I’d brought were insufficient for the season. I was very cold. But I made myself stay there and wait for something to occur.
At first I saw nothing. Then I began to discern swirls and shapes in the sky. As the sun emerged, a wild palette of colours I had never imagined spread slowly across the skyline. Time slipped away, as did the discomfort I’d been feeling.
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