The day after his funeral I asked a son to take me to Tatamagouche. The speaking engagement I had there already, which was supposed to be with him, started my world without him. The busy schedule of engagements, writing and the Minuitaqn (recreate) Craftshop have kept me busy. The writing hampered by Parkinson’s disease does not end. Other projects in the offing will go on as long as I am able. The field of writing has made my world a gold mine, not monetary reward but by seeing the sea of faces, their eyes revealing the glow of replaced honour.
On December 23, 1989 I was notified that I was a recipient of the Order of Canada Medal. I thanked the lady who phoned me. She kept asking if I was excited; the excitement would have been more if my husband was with me. I thanked my country for the honour in one of my poems. The honour means more to the coming generation. Today, March 27, 1992 I received a letter from Rideau Hall in Ottawa on another matter. The envelope reads, Rita Joe, C.M. The title looks elegant, it means good.
My greatest wish is that more writing is done by minorities, and used as the content reading by our children. The rooted world expressed by a child, the world that is good, their own means more. As I have always said again and again, our history would have been written different if it was expressed by us. My people were known as great orators. The ones I have heard presented their views truthfully, not eloquently but in humble terms. These are the people the so-called discoverers found. The literary passage has done a harm in more ways than one can imagine. I hope the future holds a better promise. We have a heritage that never died, it lives in the eyes of our people, the eyes are sometimes sad, sometimes hostile under the face-kerchief, sometimes curious, watching what you will do next. I watched the world we live in, the rooted world of my dad, mom, the foster homes I stayed. The last one at the Indian Residential School in Shubenacadie, Nova Scotia. Some people may say it was bad, I say it was put there as a need. Though there were mistakes pointed out, a need was evident when it opened. I know the people who came from the place have gone on into productivity, some haven’t, the scars too deep. I was there and have no scars. If one must be healed, dwell on the positive part — I did, I’m sitting here feeling good.
The image of my people is upper most in mind, the beauty told, the thought inspiring another. Nenwite’ten ke’luk weji tu’ap (remember I found the good). Jika’winen we’jitutqsip kutoy ninen (look at us and you too will find the good). Being a stranger in your own land is a sad story, the turnaround may be the curriculum content in the schools. Let us have our say or none at all. Iknmulek na! (We give! Let us.)
Bernadette Joe Rose
April 7, 1959 — April 4, 1992
“I dreamt about Dad,” she said
“He held a beautiful baby with curly black hair.”
“Who is the baby?” I asked
“I don’t know.”
“It must be Jesus,” I said
“I don’t know.”
On April 4th I knew
Frank was holding our curly haired baby
Bernadette Joe
Our beautiful curly black-haired baby
Bernadette Joe
Bernadette Isobel was my seventh child born to us on April 7, 1959. She was born with curly black hair with large expressive eyes. The baby I loved was joined one year later by Frances, then Caroline and Ann. And six other before her. Bernadette was lost somewhere in the middle. The nickname I gave her was “omely,” a loving term of homely in an Indian sound. One day she came running in with long legs with a pout on her face. “I know the meaning of the word now! I looked it up in a dictionary.” A wave of emotion swept over me as I swooped her up and hugged her. “I love you Tuce. I love you with all my heart.” This was twenty-four years ago. My beautiful Bernadette died April 4, 1992. She was only thirty-two yars old, and the image of her running inside, the hug and words are always on my mind. I love you my beautiful Bernadette, I love you.
My Doctor, My Friend Dr. M.S. Virick
I first met him thirty years ago
When I was expecting a baby I feared would die,
Before this time I had lost two
I begged him to save this one, I began to cry.
He touched me gently, promising his best
I knew then I had made a friend.
His comforting words to me like a brother
Like someone dear, you rely on for comfort.
Thirty years have passed, I still ask him for a hug
When my problems overload, my road to end.
The soothing voice I still depend upon
I know he will repair
He is my doctor, my friend.
To my people the Mi’kmaq, he is their friend
Malpale’wit* to them, to minister a need,
Someone who helps again and again
Like the oath to his promise, no end.
(* Malpale’wit — Doctor)
The Part I Told
Today I sort out my thoughts, the theme in mind
Lnuqamiksuti* I must write about
The values find.
The idea keeps coming back, it is what I know
My heart, my being, my soul
The inner glow.
I promised a friend of another culture
That I tell a story for him, I know I will
My tie to honesty strong.
The eyesight is fading, the closer to the machine
The reality of limitation creeps closer
To the finish line I must lean.
What is more to tell? The spiritual path?
My jijaqamij* senses, the joy at times
But loneliness plays a part.
It is as if looking for answer from self
Where did it start?
Who knows.
The little child held in place, no escape
But a strong determination, survival
The only thought known.
The road with many curves, left, right
Believing the words at all cost
Finally the honest one, all straight until the end.
My story began on March 15, 1932
She was so soft, not easily forgotten, she left
No adieu, only the box in the ground.
I am L’nu* the part I told
Like a book with no cover, I sway
I touch until you find.
(November 8, 1996)
* Lnuqamiksuti – aboriginal lifestyle
* Jijaqamij – my spirit
* L’nu – aboriginal person
Kisulkip (The One Who Made Us)
I have prayed since the dawn of time
My spirituality unknown.
The voicing of my God’s name in tribal language
The definitions in history quoted wrong
Only I know.
Kisulkip, I said his name again and again
In my dance I salute to the sky
In my song the same
The quiet nobility I use when calling His Name
I am sure the Super-spirit, Kisulkip, had much compassion for our people. Aboriginals fast for days at a time and try to find answers to their problems, their prayers as humble as many others on earth. I have shared true spirituality with others in a sweat-lodge, and my own expectations were realized through the purifying process. The aura I saw and the enhancement of colour to all objects was interpreted as successful cleansing. I was so moved by the experience that I tried other ceremonies and found some of the answers that I was looking for. Sometimes messages come through other people, or sometimes through my own study of the spiritual path. I am sure I am receiving help from some unknown source. Do not ask how I know, I just do.
(February 22, 1997)
Prayer Before the Sacred Fire
I stand before the Sacred Fire
To the East direction I throw the tobacco on flame
My heart full of hope, alasutmaqn* be heard
Kisulkw apoqnmui*
To the South I throw the tobacco on flame
My spirit
pleading, Nutmwi alasutmaqn*
To the West I throw the tobacco on flame
My body is relaxed, eyes closed, the visions come.
To the North I throw the tobacco on flame
My people dance, they are spirits
The image is like as if true.
My Kisulkw* has heard!
* alasutmaqn – prayer
* Kisulkw apoqnmui – help me my creator
* Nutmwi alasutmaqn – hear my prayer
* Kisulkw – Creator
A Spiritual Awakening
I awoke at 3 A.M.
There was such a spiritual feeling
I was sure this is what one feels before the end.
I lay there waiting
There was something near my bed
I reached out my hand to touch
Only air.
The powerful force was outpouring love
I kept trying to touch
Only air.
Finally I got up
I walked, sat down, I walked again
Confusion in mind of what was happening.
I lay down again.
The prayer beads were on my mind
As soon as they were in my hand, there was comfort.
Recitation became automatic
I slept again.
It was later I awoke again
My room the same, I felt peace.
It is not as bad as I thought it was
Words on Wings
There are words I want to put on wings
That when I am gone, someone read
Maybe to create the emotions inside
And tell their own story, instill pride.
Then their word will have wings
To create another thought, pretend
We are a chain, linking together
To span a bridge where communication scatters.
(1995)
Monuments
Before my first book of poetry went into print the publisher wanted some of the poems to be translated to Mi’kmaq. The most of my writing was in English with the exception of a few Mi’kmaq words I was using. Abanaki Press, the first publisher of my work, wanted the poem Monuments to be translated, so assigned Bernie Francis the linguist to work with me. I remember we sat in my kitchen discussing the Native words. He said there is no Mi’kmaq word for monument. After talking about it a little while I suggested we go ask my mother-in-law Mrs. Isobel Paul if she would know of a word. Immediately she said there is no word in Mi’kmaq for monument. I thought a little while then asked her of a word for blazing a trail into the woods, so you find your way back or the little stick signs you put pointing where your traps were or any signal a Native may use. At first she said kinwa’taqn (show where) then she said the word knu’kaqann (sign or show where). Bernie’s face lit up realizing what she was saying. These are the two people who were experts in our Native language, not me. I was so happy that we found the word.
Finally the book went into print, I was sent complimentary copies. I was so anxious to show the book to Kivu (mother) I ran across the road to her house, so happy to show it to her. She had had a stroke by that time. She looked at the cover recognizing my picture and great-granddaughter Audrey’s picture. She said, “That’s you and Audrey.” I then read the poem in Mi’kmaq to her. She looked into my eyes expressing the words I will never forget. “Where did you find those beautiful words Tuce?” My eyes filled with tears as we held each other. You, I said. And each time I tell this story I become emotional because it took a long time to earn her love. I did by the time of my first book, and all because of the word Monument.
Monuments
Ai! Mu knu’kaqann
Mu nuji-wi’kikaqann
Mu weskitaqawikasinukl kisna
mikekni-napuikasinukl
Kekinua’tuenukl wlakue’l
Pa’qalaiwaqann.
Ta’n teluji-mtua’lukwi’tij nuji-
kina’mua’tijik a.
Ke’kwilmi’tij,
Maqamikewe’l wisunn,
Apaqte’l wisunn,
Sipu’l,
Mukk kasa’tu mikuite’tmaqanmk
Wula knu’kaqann.
Ki’kelu’lk nemitmikl
Kmtne’l samqwann nisitk,
Kesikawitkl sipu’l.
Wula na kis-napui’kmu’kl
Mikuite’tmaqanminaq.
Nuji-kina’masultioq,
We’jitutoqsip ta’n kisite’tmekl
Wisunn aqq ta’n pa’qi-klu’lk
Tepqatmi’tij L’nu weja’tekemk
Weji-nsituita’timk.
Aye! no monuments,
No literature,
No scrolls or canvas-drawn pictures
Relate the wonders of our yesterday.
How frustrated the searchings
of the educators.
Let them find
Land names,
Titles of seas,
Rivers;
Wipe them not from memory.
These are our monuments.
Breathtaking views —
Waterfalls on a mountain,
Fast flowing rivers.
These are our sketches
Committed to our memory.
Scholars, you will find our art
In names and scenery,
Betrothed to the Indian
Since time began.
Contributors
Rita Joe of Eskasoni, born in Wycocomagh in 1932, has received the Order of Canada in recognition of her work as a Mi’kmaq writer and spokesperson. She has published three collections of poetry as well as an autobiography. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies and she has been instrumental in fostering writing and publishing by First Nations writers in Canada.
Don Julien is the publisher of the Micmac-Maliseet Nations News.
Ruth Holmes Whitehead has studied Mi’kmaq culture for many years. She is assistant curator at the Nova Scotia Museum. Her retelling of traditional stories in this volume comes from two previously published books: Stories From The Six Worlds published by Nimbus and Six Micmac Stories put out by the Nova Scotia Museum.
Lindsay Marshall is chief of the Chapel Island First Nation. He lives on the shores of the Bras d’Or Lakes with his wife and son. His first book of poetry, Clay Pots and Bones, was published by Solus Publishing in 1997.
Murdena Marshall, a grandmother of eight children, lives in Eskasoni. She graduated with a Masters Degree from Harvard University and now teaches at the University College of Cape Breton. In 1982 Murdena was appointed by the Grand Council of the Mi’kmaq Nation as Prayer Leader.
Mary Louise Martin is a Mi’kmaq poet currently living on an island in British Columbia. Her work has previously appeared in Kelusultiek.
Elsie Charles Basque of Saulnierville was born in 1916 in the village of Hectanooga, Nova Scotia. She was one of the first Mi’kmaq women in Nova Scotia to hold a teaching license. Her memoirs are collected in a volume entitled Memories.
Shirley Kiju Kawi is a spiritual name meaning “Mother Quill.” Shirley is the author of three volumes: Sons of Within My Dreams, and Drums Over the Mountain all published by Mukla’qati Books.
Noel Knockwood is a writer and Mi’kmaq spiritual leader currently living in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia.
Helen Sylliboy of Eskasoni is a poet, educator and linguist working with curriculum development for Native studies.
Marie Battiste of Chapel Island teaches at the College of Education at the University of Saskatchewan.
Theresa Meuse was born in 1958 in the Bear River First Nation Community. She lives in Lantz, Nova Scotia and works in the health field.
Isabelle Knockwood was born in Wolfville and attended the Shubenacadie Residential School. She received her degree from St. Mary’s University. The excerpt in this book is taken from Out of the Depths published by Roseway.
Katherine Sorbey is a poet and songwriter living in Lisuguj, Quebec. Her work has previously appeared in Kelusultiek.
Daniel N. Paul was bo
rn in 1938 at the Indian Brook Reserve. He is the former executive director of the Confederacy of Mainland Micmacs and president of the Micmac Friendship Centre. His book, We Were Not the Savages, published by Nimbus, has helped to rewrite the history of Nova Scotia.
Sunset Rose is the spiritual name of Rose Morris, from Indian Brook but now living in Gold River in Lunenburg County. She graduated in Social Work from Dalhousie University and her stories have been collected in Our Story Tellers published by Mukla’qati Books of Sydney, Cape Breton.
Harold Gloade grew up in and around Hantsport, Nova Scotia and now lives in Kitchener, Ontario. “High Water” is reprinted from From My Vantage Point published by Borealis Press.
Lome Julien is an artist living in Truro, Nova Scotia. His work is on display at the Micmac Heritage Gallery in Halifax.
The Mi'kmaq Anthology Page 26