Clayton had a friend with an empty place, just outside of Edmonton. I pulled up there, and after finding the key under a flowerpot, I walked in and fell asleep on his couch.
The next day, I arrived at the Canadian Native Friendship Centre and waited while the receptionist took calls. Then I met the director, Clive, who said they had a healing circle specifically for residential school survivors that met every other day. The centre also recommended taking part in some traditional healing ceremonies, and said they could put me in touch with George Callingbull, one of the elders Clayton had mentioned. Clive recommended going intensely if I was doing this work for the first time. I didn’t have to worry about cost—it was paid for by the federal government.
“The healing circle meets in the middle of the day around lunchtime. Do you work nearby?”
“I don’t have a job, right now. But I’m looking.”
“Good. Then make sure you get something flexible.”
“I’ll try.”
The following Monday, I showed up at a church basement downtown. It was nothing like the addiction centre in southern Alberta. The room was dark, lit by candles. In the middle of the room was a blanket covered in stones, arranged in a half-moon. Around the blanket, eight people were sitting, their eyes closed.
I tiptoed to an empty chair, trying to remove my denim jacket quietly. I wondered if we were going to pray to the Holy Mother or the Holy Spirit, or Priest Boy, which is what we used to call anyone native who was now a big shot in the church.
A native man of about fifty wearing a fringed leather jacket came in. He removed his knapsack, sat down, and introduced himself as Dennis LeRoy. He asked us to go around the circle, saying our names.
“You are sitting in the Circle of Trust,” he said. “The Circle of Trust is something that we create. It’s a place where we decide to trust ourselves and others. To trust in the process. To do that, you have to make a promise. Is everyone ready to make a promise?”
I was not ready to make a promise to someone I had never met, but I found myself looking squarely at Dennis, whose gaze stilled my restlessness.
“You need to silently promise that whatever people say in this circle you will not share it with the outside. I want you to look inside of yourselves and promise this to us, your brothers and sisters.”
What have I got to lose? I thought. I’ve already lost everything that matters to me.
I made a promise to everyone in the group, then to Joan, the kids, Ma and Pa. A promise that I would try my best. That I would listen and be honest even when it was painful and difficult.
Dennis held up an eagle feather. A symbol, he said. Only the people holding the feather could speak. He asked us to share our stories, which he called our Knowings. No one could interrupt. No one could discount or ridicule or criticize what anyone else was saying or had just said.
“What about joking? Can we do that?” a woman asked.
“It’s easy to be cynical about all this. But healing starts with trusting. So if you have to joke, you better make sure that it doesn’t mock anyone’s experience. And make it funny.”
He stood and pulled a tobacco pouch from his shirt pocket.
“This tobacco is an offering to the ancestors. We offer it to the people of the east, the people of the south, the people of the west and the people of the north.”
Everyone around me shut their eyes, and I did the same. Dennis stayed silent and the room was quiet except for the sound of the overhead fan, slicing still air.
“We have come here to learn from the ancestors. To open our minds to their teachings once more. Each of these people has a heaviness in their hearts. They are wounded. They have made mistakes in their lives. They have strayed from the Red Road. They are lost.”
He told us to open our eyes, and he sat down. Turning to the woman on his left, he gave her the eagle feather. He asked her to introduce herself.
She was in her fifties and her name was Jo-Anne. Dennis asked her to relate her happiest memory from childhood.
She told us that it happened when she was seven, the same age as when I started at St. Anne’s. It was Christmas. Some kids at the residential school had gone to visit their parents, but she stayed behind with those whose parents were too far away. The nuns handed out gifts that had been sent in by parents and other relatives. Everyone got one except her.
After Christmas lunch, the nuns came back with a big silver box. It was for her. A doll. She was so happy she cried.
Then Jo-Anne handed the eagle feather back to Dennis, and he gave it to a man in his thirties, named Paul, who was sitting next to her.
While Paul was speaking, I thought back to one of my happiest memories. The first time I saw Mike at the school, fiddling with his umbrella at soccer. Then him calling me by my name. Ed. A real name, not a number. He had smiled at me, and it felt good. How I had wanted to please him. How I kept trying to please him. My face burned. I could never say that. I settled on a different memory to tell the group, the time that Tony and I stole the canned meat.
As I spoke, I wondered if Dennis could tell that I was keeping something from the group, but he simply nodded and looked into my eyes. Once we were finished the exercise, he told us he was very proud of us, and then we took a coffee break.
When we came back, Dennis asked us to talk about a time in our childhood when we had been hurt.
An older guy named Lenny talked first about how in the residential school a nun would touch him too much when she gave him a bath. I felt sweaty.
“Where are you going, Ed?” Dennis asked.
“This isn’t for me,” I replied.
“Why not?”
“That didn’t happen to me,” I said.
“Were you at a residential school?” he asked.
“Yes, but no nun ever touched me,” I replied.
“Lenny has his Knowings,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied.
“And you have yours.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“The wemistikoshiw listen so they can gain advantage. This is different. You come here to listen to other people’s Knowings. When you truly listen, yours become more real.”
“How does my story make his real?” Lenny asked.
“Because for Ed to truly hear your story, he has to listen with an open heart.”
“Can you explain?” Bridget said.
“Let me start with the medicine wheel,” Dennis said. He got up, went to his knapsack and started handing around a stack of paper. I’d seen these at Trent University, but it had been in class after I’d had a fight with Joan and had been too upset to pay much attention. On each page was a drawing of a circle, divided into four with each quarter differently coloured. “There are four directions, same as points on the compass. Many people start in the east with the rising sun, but I want to start somewhere else. A long time ago, when I was in your position, my healer taught me about grass.”
“Your healer taught you about getting high?” Bridget asked.
“That wasn’t funny,” Dennis said.
“Yes it was,” she replied. He ignored her.
“Grass is on the south of your medicine wheel. Whenever we do any sort of work we need to embody the spirit of grass.”
“Can we embody it through smoking it?” Bridget asked.
“Okay already, Bridget. A joke doesn’t get funnier the more times you tell it. And I’m holding the eagle feather, remember?”
She shrugged.
“Seriously, grass is the symbol of kindness on the medicine wheel. Because whenever it is cut, it always grows back. We have to embody that spirit of kindness toward ourselves as we heal and remember than whenever we feel unloved or trampled on, if we are kind to ourselves, we will spring back.”
Dennis asked, “Now, what teaching does fire give us?”
“Heat?” someone ventured.
“And?” Dennis prodded.
“Pain,” Lenny offered.
“Yes, it can do
that but at a higher level, fire symbolizes love. To feel the heat is to receive the touch of creation and you feel pain, yes, but at least you feel.
“We use the natural things to remind ourselves of what is important in life, to understand what defines us as the indigenous people of Turtle Island. Who knows about the tree?”
“The tree grows straight and tall. It teaches us how to stand proud,” Jo-Anne said.
“Yes, straight and tall,” Dennis repeated. “The tree teaches us about honesty. We must be straight in all things we do. Now one more. What about mountains?”
“Our cultures are like the mountains,” Jo-Anne said, “old and ancient.”
“We are immovable,” I said.
“You are on the right path. The mountains, the rock teaches us to be strong. The strength of the rock, that’s what we want to have. Some of you may know this already, and some may not.”
There was silence for a while. Dennis held up the eagle feather for someone else to speak. As he looked about, Lenny spoke up.
“Maybe I’m like the grass. Maybe I’m tired of being trampled on,” Lenny said.
“What do you mean?” Dennis said.
“Maybe I don’t want to be the grass beneath someone else’s feet anymore. Maybe I’m sick of being told that as natives, we’re always at the bottom. Maybe I want more than that,” he said. Several people nodded and there were yeahs heard around the room.
“Everyone gets tired, Lenny,” Dennis said. “But we come here because we are tired of being drunk, angry and hurt. Who has hurt those they love?”
I put up my hand. He gave me the eagle feather.
“Who did you hurt?”
“Everyone.”
“Who specifically.”
“My wife, my sons, my daughter. My family. Don. Everyone, really.”
“Are you angry inside?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Have you been hurt?”
“Yes.”
“At the residential school?”
“It started there. And it continued after. When I went to Montreal when I was sixteen.”
“Tell me your worst memory,” he said. I looked down at the eagle feather. It was white and fluffy at the shaft, then split to black, as if burnt. I remembered Albalina being born and the image of the hovering eagle flashing before my eyes. A symbol of love and truth, Pa used to say, before I stopped listening to him after being in St. Anne’s. Was it a sign? I didn’t know, but I began to talk.
A few days later, Dennis met me one-on-one in the church basement. He knew I was still having trouble talking about my past in front of the others. He told me it was okay that I had enjoyed some of my time with Mike. Common, in fact. And that I shouldn’t feel ashamed of what had happened because I wasn’t responsible. Mike was the one who “warmed me up” with gifts and built my trust. He betrayed that trust, and it was okay to feel angry at him. Good, in fact.
“Why didn’t I leave? I stayed there the whole summer.”
“Were you scared?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Did any part of you want to leave?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to that part?”
“He tried and then he gave up.”
“Why did he give up?”
“He was embarrassed about not having any money. Embarrassed that he had let himself be tricked. Embarrassed about what he’d have to say when he got home. And embarrassed that he just lay there and didn’t fight for his life.”
“Predators work by exploiting your fear and embarrassment.”
“I could have fought. I could have strangled him. I could have killed him.”
“Ed, you were scared.”
“Why didn’t I do anything?”
“What do you think? There must have been a reason.”
“I don’t know. He had such a hold over me.”
“Predators are natural manipulators. They use our weaknesses against us.”
“Maybe I like being weak. Maybe that’s why I gave up. Give up,” I corrected myself.
“Everyone feels weak sometimes. That’s why we are here.”
“I don’t want to be weak anymore. I want to be strong. Alcohol makes me feel strong.”
“We are a people who have endured. We have strength in our ceremonies. We have strength in our memories.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll have to live it before you understand.”
“I see.” I looked down at the eagle feather. “I’ve carried the memories for a long time. See, thing is, I worry sometimes. A lot. I’m afraid I wasn’t the only one. Amocheesh went to his house in Montreal, too.”
“It sounds like he was close to several boys. Where is Amocheesh now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you thought about contacting him?”
“Sure. But I don’t know where he is.”
“But you know his family name. And you know where his family lives.”
I didn’t say anything for a while. “Maybe I don’t want to know,” I finally replied.
“Why not?”
“Because what if the same thing happened and he never got over it?”
“Predators rely on your silence. And the silence of the nuns, priests and everyone else who worked at the school, and those in the community who suspected something. As soon as that silence is broken, it becomes dangerous for them.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready,” I said.
“That’s good. Good that you are being honest with yourself. We have a long way to go, Ed.”
Then he took out some sage, lit it, and we began to smudge. I wafted the smoke toward myself. The burnt smell reminded me of sitting around our Fort Albany woodstove, of being a boy back home.
TWENTY-THREE
That weekend, Lenny and I drove to Enoch Cree Nation, northwest of Edmonton. It was a small reserve, on flat grassland with a few scattered buildings. Dennis had given us directions and told us that we would be meeting Mr. Callingbull, who would be leading the sweat.
In the car, I thought of my great-granddad, John Metatawabin. He did sweat lodge ceremonies in the night in the woods before he was taken away. The police found out about it. Who told them? The town’s priest? The Hudson’s Bay manager? So many questions, but my family were afraid to even talk about it. Fearful of being targeted by the police or stigmatized by the rest of the town.
I imagined my great-grandfather looking down on me from the Spirit World. As I thought about it, I felt the back of my head burn, as if someone was really watching me. His manitou was outside of me, but also within. His spirit danced in me, and guided me in times of trouble. It drew its power from Gitchi Manitou, who lived in me, and breathed in us all. We were all upwellings of the same pool of Spirit-Matter, all different manifestations of Gitchi Manitou. The Standing Ones, the Four-Leggeds, the Two-Leggeds, the Grandfather Rocks, the River of Life. All my relations. Ni chi shannock.
Mr. Callingbull came to the car to greet us. Then he led us toward a mound-shaped tent made of saplings and blankets.
“You must be Lenny and Ed,” he said. “I’m George. Dennis told me about you.” Then he told us to strip down to our boxers and come inside.
We crawled through the narrow entrance. Inside was dark and hot, like being inside a woodstove. George began speaking.
“We came in through a door of new beginnings. An opening that faces east, the direction the sun rises.”
I’m too hot, I thought. Sweat dribbled down my face.
“We honour the Great Earth Mother, the skies, and the fire, the air and the forest.”
I heard a pfft, and my legs became prickly with steam. When the air hit my neck, my throat became tight.
“We honour the Seven Sacred Teachings and the Red Road. We honour Gitchi Manitou and all his spirit helpers.”
Another pfft, and the temperature increased. My throat screamed water. My mouth was on fire.
“We honour the Standing Ones, the F
our-Leggeds, and the Two-Leggeds.”
My skin was going to unpeel raw from my body. My hair felt like it had trapped a burning restlessness inside. I shut my eyes again and tried to get more air. I felt faint. Something warm and wet on my hand. I looked down and saw the shadow of a wolf licking it. I rubbed my eyes. It was dark, but I could make out a muzzle and a pair of yellow eyes. The eyes disappeared for a moment then drew a tight circle around the spot where George was sitting.
“Wolf spirit, is that you?” I asked, the words resounding inside my head.
“Yes,” she said.
“What are you doing here?”
“I never left.”
“You didn’t?” The eyes disappeared. I rubbed my own, and saw a glimmer of yellow.
“Are you there?” I asked silently.
“I’m right here, Ed.”
“What should I do?”
“You already know.”
“Tell me. Please.”
The yellow eyes faded again and I saw an image of Ma tending to a knife wound Pa had self-inflicted while skinning a marten. He was sitting on the tree stump outside our house and she leaned over him, washing the cut with a pot of boiled water. Once she had finished, she stroked his hair. The image faded and I saw Joan holding the hands of my children, in a line, from youngest to oldest, then this too disappeared into black.
“Wolf spirit. Why go home?”
“You need to take your Knowings back home.”
“What are my Knowings?”
She disappeared.
The heat was so intense that I could not breathe. It pulled me into a sadness that had been there for as long as I could remember. Tears mixed with the steam that drenched my face. I cried until I was nothing but dry heat.
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