Rez Rebel

by Melanie Florence

  Rez Rebel

  Melanie Florence

  James Lorimer & Company Ltd., Publishers

  Toronto

  For Josh and Taylor.

  And for Kat, who has made me a better writer.

  A Note from the Author

  Suicide among young people, especially in Indigenous communities, is a problem that needs talking, writing, and reading about. And the language we use to do this is important. Studies and history have shown that having First Nations kids learn hereditary languages and culture is a major way to prevent suicide. In this story, Floyd and his friends and parents speak English, but also use Cree words and terms. Because it is natural for these characters to speak the Cree language, the words are not set apart from the rest of the text. But here are the Cree terms used and their English translations:

  maskosis — little bear or bear cub

  miwapewiw — he is handsome

  miyo kisikaw — it is a fine day

  miyo takosin — good evening or it is a fine night

  nimosôm — my grandfather

  pe mitso — come and eat

  tânisi — Hello. How are you?

  wâpos — rabbit

  Chapter 1

  In the Woods

  BIRTH OF A WARRIOR

  Floyd Twofeathers was born in a teepee in an overgrown forest when the moon was at its fullest, looking over the Bitter Lake Reserve. He was born into a long line of Chiefs and Medicine Women and a tribe of warriors.

  I had always wanted to be a writer. So I guess it was in my nature to be poetic, maybe overly poetic. The bio I wrote would have been really cool if I had come into this world in, say, the 1800s. But in fact I was born in the early ’00s. That’s 2000s, not 1900s. I came into being in the decade that brought us the iPhone, reality TV, and UFC. It might have been the twenty-first

  century, but Indians — or Indigenous Canadians if you want to be politically correct — were still stuck with stereotypes. Stereotypes like alcoholism and abuse, or images that included buffalo hunting with a bow and arrow. I’m actually pretty good with a bow and arrow. But there are no buffalo for me to hunt. And I would much rather watch animals than hunt them. My weapon of choice is a notebook and pen. You know, the pen is mightier than the sword and all that. I never go anywhere without a

  notebook and pen — tools of my trade — in my back pocket. As for that other stereotype? I never touch the stuff.

  It was quiet in the forest. There was only the rustle of the wind through the trees. I heard the sound of birds chirping and the soft flutter of their wings as they moved from branch to branch. I could even make out the crush of leaves beneath the feet of the animals. A rabbit crept out from under a bush. Nose twitching, the rabbit hopped past and disappeared back into the forest. I waited . . . breathing quietly . . . as still as the trees around me. The late August sun was beating mercilessly on the back of my neck, turning my skin an even darker shade of brown.

  I watched my mother gathering ingredients for her medicines. My mom, Cardinal Twofeathers, is a healer, a medicine woman from a long line of medicine women. I was eager to learn all I could from her. She taught me to respect Mother Earth. She taught me about sacred medicines and how to speak our language. She told me stories my entire life, our history and our folklore. And

  she encouraged me to write my own stories down.

  “There’s a lot to be learned in the forest, Maskosis,” she would tell me. She used her favourite nickname for me — Little Bear. Yes, I was her little bear. I was always by her side while I was growing up, quick to learn about the roots she would dig up and the leaves she would boil for teas that would cure everything from colds to stomach ache.

  I sat down against a tree trunk and pulled out my notebook, flipping through until I found an empty page.

  Dear Diary

  Ugh. No. That sounded like I was a ten-year-old girl or something.

  Dear Journal

  That wasn’t much better. I stared down at the blank page. Why did it have to be “Dear” something? That was way too

  formal. I chewed on the end of my pen thoughtfully. I glanced at my mother digging up roots and wondered what I could write about her. How would I describe her to someone who didn’t know her?

  She’s a lot smarter than me. And she’s beautiful in a way that makes men stop and stare at her when we go into the city. I’ve always hated that. Women are drawn to her for her kindness and knowledge. I spend hours with her in the forest or in the kitchen, cooking dinner. I guess you could call me a mama’s boy. But if my mother is the mama in question, it doesn’t seem like an insult to me.

  I was brought out of my reverie by a satisfied sigh from my mom. She sat back on her heels, holding a long piece of bark in her dirty hands. She brushed it off on her pants and smiled, holding it out to me. She wanted me to tell her what it was. It was a game we played often, a test to see how much I had learned from her, how much I could remember.

  “Well, Maskosis? Do you recognize this one?”

  I frowned for a moment, letting her think she had me stumped. Then a grin slid across my face as I caught her eye. She wasn’t fooled for a second.

  “Quaking Aspen,” I answered, shoving my notebook back into my pocket.

  “And what is it used for?”

  “The inner bark is used as a poultice for dressing wounds,” I shot back. She smiled, clearly pleased. I caught the familiar scents of sweetgrass, sage, and cedar. Each of those plants was used so often and for so many different medicines that the smell of them clung to my mother like a perfume. I couldn’t ever smell those scents without thinking of her. Traditional. Steeped in the culture of our people. Proud of who she was and where she came from.

  “Floyd?” My mother’s soft voice interrupted my daydream. “Where did you go?”

  “Sorry. I’m here. Did you get everything you need?”

  “Yes. I’m going to boil the roots tonight and make a

  poultice for Auntie Martha. She’s had that cough for weeks and it hasn’t gotten any better. Maybe you can run it over for me tomorrow with some of Raynetta’s chicken soup?”

  “Yeah, sure. I’m going past there with the guys tomorrow morning anyway.”

  “Thank you.” She raised a hand and I helped her to her feet. She tossed her leather pouch of roots and barks to me and turned her face up toward the warm sun. She looked so young that I stood still as a statue, afraid to break the spell. I loved this side of my mom. This was the carefree, childlike version of my mother that seemed to mostly come out in the forest, where we were surrounded by all the things we both loved the most.

  Chapter 2

  On the Rez

  We walked out of the woods in comfortable silence. The dense forest gave way as we reached the edge and plunged out into the full force of daylight. My pickup truck was parked at the edge of the woods. It was a jade green monster that

  I had worked, scrimped, and saved every penny for. I’d finally had the money to buy it that June. My truck was old, but she ran like a dream.

  I opened the passenger door and held it as my mother climbed up into the cab. I closed the door, strode around to the driver’s side and climbed in beside her. The ignition made a grinding noise as I turned the key. Then the engine roared into life. Damn, I loved that truck. I had been trying to think of a name for her since I got her. But I still hadn’t come up with the right one. I had tried Selena (my Selena Gomez phase), Tricky (I don’t remember why . . . I think one of the guys came up with that one), Cherry, Stacey, Muffin (that was Mouse’s idea, he’s four years younger than me), Esmerelda . . . Nope. Hadn’t found the right name yet. But I knew it would come to me eventually. I pat
ted the steering wheel as I drove away from the woods and toward home.

  We cruised down the road, past the forest at the edge of the reserve, past the green hay and cornfields and into the cluster of homes. Clothes hung on lines outside. Children ran races and pummeled each other in front yards. Dogs twitched sleepily on porches. Women called out to each other, balancing chubby brown babies on their hips and waving to us as we passed. One day was the same as any other here. I loved it. I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  Still, I knew that not everyone felt the same way. We didn’t have it easy on our rez.

  There weren’t many jobs. There wasn’t a youth program. We were bussed out for middle and high school. Most of us had been the object of some kind of racism at one point or another when we were off the rez. Some people didn’t have electricity at home. And most of the people here were poor. With nothing to do and a future that was more often dark than bright, we had been seeing a pretty high number of suicides among our youth.

  I had lost one of my best friends a month ago. Aaron had left a note saying that no one understood him. He thought we’d all be happier without him around. I still couldn’t believe he was gone. I had ideas about why he had killed himself, but I didn’t want to think about that either.

  I cleared my throat and tried to clear my head too. “Mom, did you want to stop at Auntie Martha’s for tea or something?”

  “No, Maskosis. I have those roots to boil and dinner to start.”

  “Mom! Miyo kisikaw — it’s a fine day! Let’s go see what Raynetta’s doing.”

  She smiled.

  “Floyd, why don’t you take one of those sandwiches in the cooler to your father, then go see the boys?” She was clearly trying to get me out of her hair for a while.

  “Yeah, okay.” I pulled up in front of our house.

  “Be home for dinner?” she asked as she ruffled my hair.

  “Of course.”

  I watched her pick up the bag of roots and walk into the house.

  The band office was in a small building that also housed a tiny library with books that were sadly out of date. I kept meaning to organize a book drive or ask my high school if they had any to donate. The building also held our medical centre. It was a bit of a joke because we had just one nurse on site. A doctor came in once a week or so. But he didn’t put in nearly enough hours to see everyone who needed his care. There was also a dental office, which was what we called the one room for the visiting dentist. It was a lot like living in the old west, actually. The only thing we were missing was a travelling judge.

  A few years ago, the council had made plans for a whole new medical centre. It would have a full-time doctor and nurse on staff, plus a full-time dentist. It would have a diabetes clinic. A shrink would be on call. It would barely cover the needs of the rez, but it was a start.

  The council couldn’t come up with the funding.

  I walked in and headed toward my father’s office. It was quiet in the building today. And empty. I knew my dad would be in his office, buried behind a pile of paperwork. He was probably applying for some kind of grant. I don’t know how he did it. He kept asking for money to get us what we needed. And he kept getting turned down.

  I heard my dad clearing his throat when I was still out in the hallway. I was about to call out a greeting. Then I caught a glimpse of him through the door and came to a sudden stop. My father is usually animated and confident. But today he was sitting slump-shouldered with his head in his hands.

  I’m not an idiot. There was a lot of pressure on my father to fix all of the problems on the rez. And with the suicides that had been happening, I knew he had more than his share of stress. But I had rarely seen him looking as tired and helpless as he did at that moment.

  If my mother was quietly strong and sure, my father was the exact opposite. Victor Twofeathers was an imposing

  figure. He was tall, muscular, and outspoken with a boisterous laugh and a charming way about him. His manner drew people in and made them want to be around him. He was firm but kind, imposing yet inviting. People loved him but feared him a little. I had thought about it enough to figure out what made him that way.

  My father had spent six years in a residential school, his own father before him even longer. My father rarely talked about it. But I had heard horror stories growing up on the rez. If they were even just partly true, then my father had been to hell and back. Being forced to deny his culture and to be ashamed of who he was and where he came from was the least of what he would have gone through. Every conceivable kind of abuse took place at those schools. It was hard to believe that my big, confident father had been through that. I couldn’t imagine anyone ever getting the best of him. I just couldn’t wrap my head around it. How do you put that kind of thing behind you and live a normal life? But he had done it. I admired him for that. So many other survivors drowned in addictions, unable to move past their abuse. But my dad refused to touch booze or drugs, and did the best he could as chief.

  He’s actually the hereditary chief. That means that his

  position has been passed down from generation to generation. We’re a self-governing reserve, so he acts as elected chief too. No one else wanted the job, not with all the issues we’ve been facing. Lack of clean water. Suicide. Alcoholism. Poverty. Drug abuse. No one else wanted to be the one who has to answer all the questions. So my father stepped up and serves as Chief Councilman along with two others on the council. I’ll inherit the job someday.

  Chapter 3

  Family

  I took several steps away from the office and made a big noisy show of approaching the door the second time. When I reached the doorway this time, my dad was shuffling papers around his desk. He looked up and smiled, nodding at the bundle in my hands.

  “Is that for me?” he asked.

  “Hey, Dad.” I put the sandwich and a thermos of coffee down on his desk and sat in the only other chair in the room. Actually, there was a third chair. But it had been covered in books and papers for as long as I could remember. You couldn’t see it unless you already knew it was there.

  I looked at my dad closely. There was no trace of the mood I had caught him in just a moment before. A smudge of ink marked his cheek. “Floyd,” he said, as if checking my name off a list. “Your mom send you over?”

  I nodded toward the sandwich. “She wanted to make sure you ate something.” In answer to his smile, I asked, “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to figure out how to get the government to set up a filtration system. We’re this close to getting hit with a boil water advisory.” He held up his fingers with the smallest space between them and sighed. Our water had been looking kind of brown. But so far, it was still safe to drink. My father was working day and night to try to get it cleaned up before we had to boil it before drinking it. Just one more thing he had on his plate.

  “Anything I can help with?” I asked. I already knew the answer. Although I was to be the next hereditary chief, my father still thought I was too young to do anything useful.

  “No, not really. Why don’t you go and play with your friends?” he suggested. He looked back down at his desk, the message clear.

  Did he just tell me to go play? Really?

  “Yeah, sure.” I stood up and headed toward the door. “See you at home?”

  “Uh huh.” His mind was already back in his work.

  I knew my dad had a fun side to him. It just didn’t come out much anymore. He spent so much time working that he didn’t have time for us like he used to.

  With eight years between them, my parents might not have had much to talk about if they lived in the city. But on the rez, culture and tradition go a long way. My mother was a traditional Cree woman. Even as a teenager, she knew how to care for a home and a family. She could cook, clean, and sew. She could plant a garden and grow her own vegetables. She had helped raise her four brot
hers and sisters. She had worked with and learned from Mary Running Wolf. Mary was a healer who people came from all over to see.

  My mother married my father when she was eighteen. Dad first laid eyes on her at a community dance at his rez. She was visiting family. He swept her off her feet. He was a full-grown man. He was strong and sure. What more could a girl want?

  I used to imagine what my parents’ first meeting must have been like. They would have been young and my dad wouldn’t have lost his soul in the council office yet.

  Fade in on a girl, standing behind a table laden with food. She is smiling shyly at people as she hands out napkins of cookies and ladles out fruit punch. She pushes a braid over her shoulder and glances wistfully around at the people dancing. Maybe she wishes that someone would ask her to dance.

  A man steps up to the table, surrounded by his friends. He’s handsome but he shows no interest in the girls fluttering around him and his group. He’s clearly the leader of the gang. People flock around him, as if some of what makes him stand out might rub off on them. He stops in front of the girl and smiles down at her.

  Victor: Hi. I’m Victor. I don’t think we’ve met.

  The girl colours slightly. But she smiles back.

  Cardinal: No. I’m just here visiting my aunt.

  Victor: Aren’t you going to tell me your name?

  She laughs. It’s a tinkling, magical sound. Victor is instantly transfixed.

  Cardinal: I’m Cardinal.

  Now Victor’s entire group of friends is staring at the girl as well. There’s just something about her. But the rest of them don’t stand a chance. Not with Victor there.

  Victor: (tilting his head and studying her) I think you may be the prettiest girl here, Cardinal.

  She blushes and picks up a cookie, holding it out to him.

  Cardinal: Would you like a cookie?

  Victor: (smiling) No. But I’d love a dance.