In Search of April Raintree

by Beatrice Mosionier

  And then I was questioned by the defence counsel, Mr. Schneider. He sounded very skeptical, at times even sarcastic. He tried different insinuations, which made me feel defensive. By the time he was through with me, I felt like it was me who was on trial. He persisted in making me go into depth about some incidents, and I really believed it was just to make me say those words that 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.

  A recess was called after I was allowed off the stand, and I headed straight for the washroom. Once there, I threw up. One woman had been in there when I walked in, and she glanced at me. I couldn’t interpret what was in her glance, but when she expressed sympathy, I broke down and began crying. I wished for the moment that I could stay in the washroom until everyone was gone, but I had to go out to Mr. Scott’s car. I fixed my makeup, and 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, for which I was extremely grateful. 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 the Roseau Reservation. There was an area set aside for campers like us. As we made our way to the main area, we noticed licence 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 event, as Cheryl had said, was the dancing competition. 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 chanting 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 hearing and seeing. I felt good. I felt alive. There were stirrings of pride, regret, and even an inner peace. For the first time in my life, I felt as if all of this 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 so 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 occupied with enjoying my own realizations. I also noted with satisfaction 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.

  “Oh, I don’t know. In this atmosphere, everything is staged; it’s romanticized. On Monday, we’ll all go home, and to what? I’ll go back to see the drunken Indians on Main Street, and I’ll feel the same old 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.”

  “Yeah, but the 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 the 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. Me, I’ve been identifying with the Indian people ever since I was a kid. The Métis people share more of the same problems with the Indian people. I guess that’s why Riel was leader to both. 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 that 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, strange white intruders. 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, your friends. 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 those that you had perfected through centuries of wars, we realized that peace could not be won, unless our mass destruction took place. And so we turned to treaties. And this time, we ran into your cunning trickery. And we lost our lands, our freedom, and 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 that 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 that Mother Earth has given us?

  You do not stop at confining us to small pieces of rock and muskeg. Where are the ani
mals 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, everything 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 that has been 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 easy victims. 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.

  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 told 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.

  I returned to working as a temp, but the scenes I saw on my way to and from work on Main Street gradually made that weekend’s emotions disappear. I remembered my original evaluation of these people. Everyone always said, “Those Indians on Main Street,” but there were a lot of Métis there, too. No, I felt no affection towards any of the Native peoples there. But for Cheryl, I faked interest. So, when Cheryl asked me to go down to the Friendship Centre with her one evening, I agreed.

  We decided to walk, or rather, Cheryl decided to walk. Walking was Cheryl’s chief mode of transportation, even in winter. I suspected she was also snubbing my little car. However, it was a beautiful evening to be out, the kind where you could breathe deeply and smell the delicious night air. It made one feel giddy, as in giddy-up-go, the kind of evening that, if I were a horse, I’d be kicking up my heels and running like crazy.

  Cheryl and I talked about the Steindalls, kind of longingly. We admitted that we both felt too embarrassed to go back and see them, having been out of touch with them for so long. And perhaps our main desire would have been just to see and ride the horses. Cheryl and I decided we would go horseback riding a lot more often than we had been doing. For me, it was one way of getting her into my car. Our car.

  When we got to the Friendship Centre, we entered a large recreation room. I saw a lot of elderly Native people, and Cheryl mixed among them immediately, with me tagging along behind her. While she conversed with them, I could only smile patronizingly, and nod when it was expected. I knew that Cheryl saw their quiet beauty, their simple wisdom. All I could see were watery eyes, leathery brown skin, uneducated Natives.

  Cheryl explained that many of the people were in the city for medical reasons, or they were visiting relatives. When they returned north to their homes, they would resume fishing, trapping, and committing themselves to crafts.

  “One thing you wouldn’t like is the way they live in winter,” Cheryl said to me. “Some of them have to walk miles and miles just for their water. They put rolled-up newspapers inside their jackets for extra warmth. Cardboard and plastic replace broken window panes. Their furniture is wooden crates and blankets on the floor. Well, you’ve seen the pictures in some of the books I’ve given you.”

  “Sure, but I thought that was in the olden days. I thought they had new houses now.”

  “New houses, yeah, but cheaply made, no plumbing, no sewer system. Besides, those housing programs were thought up by Indian Affairs, which means only Treaty Indians get any of the supposed benefit out of them. Non-status Indians and Métis get welfare, and that’s it.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I felt it was good that they didn’t have the federal government to rely on, that it would help them be independent, to a certain point. But I also knew what Cheryl said was true about non-status Indians and Métis, and that employment was hard for them to come by.

  Just then, an older woman came up to us. Thinking that she wanted a private word with Cheryl, I moved away a bit and occupied myself by studying some Indian art hanging on the wall. Then Cheryl and the old woman approached me. The old woman suddenly reached towards me and put her hand on mine. I glanced down at her hand. It looked rusted and old. Her fingers were swollen at the joints, disfigured, the veins stood out, and it took everything I had not to move my hand away from hers.

  Her hand felt so warm, so dry, so old. I’m sure my smile froze and then faded. I waited for her to take her hand away. I looked at her questioningly, but she didn’t say anything. Her gaze held mine, for I saw in her eyes that deep simple wisdom of which Cheryl had spoken. And I no longer found her touch distasteful. Without speaking a word to me, the woman imparted her message with her eyes. She had seen something in me that was special, something that was deserving of her respect. I wondered what she could possibly have found in me that could have warranted her respect. I just stood there, humbled. At the same time, I had this overwhelming feeling that a mystical spiritual occurrence had just taken place.

  Sheepishly, I told Cheryl how I had felt as we walked home. Cheryl smiled and said, “Well, you should be honoured. White Thunderbird Woman is an Elder. I told her that you were my sister but in blood only. I told her your vision was clouded, but that when your vision cleared, you would be a good person for the Métis people.”

  “You do have a unique way of putting things.”

  “Comes from reading so many Indian books. Actually, most Indians today don’t talk like that at all.”

  “It’s a pity. It sounds so poetic.”

  When my vision cleared, Cheryl had said. Would it ever? And would it mean that someday I would come to accept those Main Street people?

  I gave that incident a lot of thought over the following weeks. If I’d had such a grandmother when I was growing up, maybe I wouldn’t have been so mixed up. My emotions were getting the better of me. Finally, I put it all down to the fact that it was a very emotional time of my life, with the divorce and rape and all. Still, I continued to waver back and forth as to just how I felt about being a Métis. It was a part of me. I was part Indian. But so what?

  In September, Roger came over to our place on a Saturday morning. It had been two months since I had last seen him. I had missed him, of course, and I had found it lonely without his company. But then, I had Cheryl’s company, and that made up for it, a little. I had consoled myself by thinking that, with me, no deep relationship would ever be possible, and therefore it was better for Roger to stay away. When the doorbell sounded, I wondered who it could be, because Cheryl and I had virtually no one to call on us. Even though she had retu
rned to her former self, Cheryl still had invited no one to our house. It was probably an Avon lady.

  “Hello, April.”

  “Roger! What are you doing here?” I was surprised and pleased to see him, and a smile came instantly to my face.

  “Oh, I was in the neighbourhood. Thought I’d drop by for a cup of coffee, and see how you were,” he smiled.

  “In the neighbourhood, huh?” I smiled back, and led him into the kitchen. When I had gotten the coffee, we sat at the table, but didn’t say anything.

  Finally, he said, “Look, before—”

  At the same time, I said, “I missed you.”

  “Well, I missed you, too. I was hoping, and waiting, for you to call me. If you don’t want to see me, then I want you to tell me now, and I want you to tell me why. Is it because of your marriage? Did you get hurt by it? Is that why you’ve always held me at arm’s length?”

  “No. No, it has nothing to do with my marriage. I do like you, Roger. I just don’t want you wasting your time with me, especially if you want more than just being friends. I can’t give you more than that. And I can’t tell you why. I won’t tell you why.” I sighed and put my cup down, emphasizing how hopeless the situation was.

  I didn’t look at him, but I knew he was looking at me. I could feel it. After a while he said, “Well, I’d rather for us to be friends than nothing at all. So, we’ll continue seeing each other, all right? And if you ever feel like telling me exactly what is bothering you, then don’t hold back, okay?” He reached out and put his hand under my chin and made me look at him.

  “Okay. But just don’t count on it.”

  Roger had some things to do, but we made plans to go out later that evening. When Cheryl came down later, I told her Roger had been there. Then I wondered if my going out with him again would have an adverse effect on her.