Keeper'n Me (6 page)

“Look, man,” I said. “What? What you lookin' at? Ain't you never seen no Indian before or somethin'?”

“S-s-s-sorry,” he said, “b-b-but I ain't seen anybody round here l-l-l-like you.”

“Well, get used to it, slick. My name's Raven, man, and I'm just coming home to White Dog for a visit, so you be seein' my brown ass a bit, dig?”

“R-r-raven? Y-you don't look like no R-r-raven.”

“What? I ain't black enough for no Raven or somethin'? Shit, man, I said my name's Raven, my name's Raven, all right?”

“H-h-hey, no offense, you just don't look like the r-r-r-resta them, that's all.”

“Fine,” I said, looking out the window. “Fine, I can live with that. What's with your mouth anyway, man? You're stutterin' aroun' like Porky Pig or somethin'.”

“S-s-sorry,” he said, giving me one last wide-eyed look before grabbing the wheel with both hands and staring straight ahead at the road. “It's j-just that, well, you're not quite what we're used to seein' from our our Indians, y-you know?”

“Our Indians? What's that supposed to mean?
Our
Indians?”

“No offense. I-I just meant the ones from around here. That's all.”

“What are they? Like the Clampetts or somethin'?”

“Well, not like you, that's for sure. Not like you.”

“Make you kinda nervous, does it? Seein' an Indian like me?”

“Nothin' I'm used to, that's for sure.”

“Well, relax, my man. Maybe if I hang out here long enough you gonna be seein' lotsa brothers lookin' like this. Maybe what this place needs is a good shot of downtown.”

He just looked at me one last time in the mirror and then concentrated on the road, which was just beginning to do its twist and turn to White Dog.

I'm used to it now having been back five years but that first day I wondered where the hell I was landing once we approached the reserve. First there was a big sign on the side of the road with about a hundred bullet holes in it that said:
YOU ARE ENTERING THE WHITE DOG INDIAN RESERVE. NO ADMITTANCE. VISITORS REPORT TO THE BANK OFFICE. NO ACCESS WITHOUT PERMISSION
.

Then about a quarter mile after that was a sign that read:
KEEWATIN'S GENERAL STORE! WHERE NO STOCK ISN'T A PROBLEM! GOOD FOOD! GET GAS! NO LINEUPS! BIG ED KEEWATIN PROP
.

We rounded the final curve into the townsite and I swear it looked like something outta a foreign documentary. Houses were perched on toppa rocky outcroppings and they all looked about ready to tumble down. There wasn't any siding on a lotta them and it looked like most were just sitting there on the land with no basements, plumbing or furnaces. They were all about a quarter mile
apart and there was a lotta dead-looking automobiles parked everywhere. Reminded me of what Lonnie described the Detroit ghettos to be like. There was scruffy kids running around everywhere, shirtless and wearing rolled-down black gumboots, and the occasional old person walking around lookin' tired and glum. Out back of all the houses was a big lake and there were lotsa shaky-lookin' docks around with boats tied up to them. There was a big red brick schoolhouse and a few modern houses all hunched together close by and further away was a buncha aluminum trailers too. First thing I noticed was the missing power and telephone poles, and I saw someone behind one of the houses walking up from the dock with a five-gallon pail with water slopping over the sides. There were outdoor johnnies behind the houses too and I worried about how I was gonna get the slivers outta my ass. It was the only time in my life I ever thought constipation might be a blessing. Everyone looked up as the cab pulled in and by the time we pulled up in front of the store there were about fifty Indians all heading towards us. Kinda reminded me of those movies I used to watch as a kid. One minute they weren't there and the next minute they were everywhere. It was true after all. Indians did just pop outta nowhere.

They were all craning their necks real good trying to get a glimpse of who it was behind the tinted glass, and it gave me a chance to check out the locals and try to see any faces I recognized from the pictures Stanley'd sent. Seeing all those brown faces craning and squinty-eyed
reminded me of something you see in National Geographic and I laughed while I handed the cabbie his dough. I could hear them chattering in Ojibway, laughing and rustling around. When I opened the door they all stepped back in one motion like a gumbooted chorus line.

The silence was deafening. As soon as I flung one lime green spangly platform-shoed leg out the door there was a loud gasp all around the cab. And when I stepped out there was about fifty heads all leaning in gazing at my yellow balloon-sleeved shirt and you could hear the sounds of a few dozen sniffers catching a whiff of my fifty-dollar scent. Four or five sets of hands were scrunching up my Afro and I could hear giggles from the kids as everyone was pressing closer and closer towards me. When the cab pulled away in a flurry of gravel, they surrounded me. It was true after all. Indians did love to surround you.

There was another loud gasp when I took off my shades and smiled all around.

“S'app'nin'?” I said, bobbing my head and reaching out for hands to shake.

“Ho-leeee!” someone said.

“Wow!”

“Ever look like Stanley!”

“Ever, eh?”

“Ho-leeee!” said about three together.

Just about then a tall guy with a long ponytail reached through the crowd all excited like and started
pushing people back amidst grumbling and something that sounded like cussing. When he made it up to me he stopped and looked at me with shiny eyes and kinda reaching out with his arms then pulling back, reaching out and pulling back. Finally, tears started pouring down his face. Everyone got real quiet all of a sudden and when I looked at this guy it was almost like looking into a mirror except for there being a ponytail where the Afro should have been and a definite absence of funky threads. He stared at me for what seemed like an eternity with all kindsa things working across his face, and when he spoke it was a whisper.

“Garnet,” he said. “Garnet. Garnet. Garnet.”

He reached out and touched me finally, one soft little grab of the shoulder, and then he collapsed into my arms sobbing like a kid while everyone around us moved in a little closer too.

“Twenty-two years,” he said, sobbing. “Twenty-two years, my brother. Twenty-two years.”

I was crying by this time too and all the faces around me went kinda outta focus through the tears but I could tell we weren't the only ones breaking down and I remember thinking I wasn't exactly being downtown cool, but right then it didn't really matter. Holding my brother in my arms was unlike anything I'd ever felt, and as we cried I could feel that lifelong feeling of wind whistling through my guts getting quieter and quieter.

He looked up finally, threw his arm around my shoulder and turned to the crowd.

“This is my … my … my brother,” he said, choking up and sniffling. “The one that disappeared. He's home.”

People started coming up and shaking my hand and smiling and touching me and there were tears everywhere as I heard the names of aunts and uncles and cousins and just plain White Dog folk for the first time. Stanley stood off to the side looking over at me and smiling, smiling and smiling. After a while they all moved away and started looking me over again.

“Ho-leeee!” said a voice.

“Wow!”

“Sure he's a Raven?” someone asked. “Looks like a walkin' fishin' lure or somethin'!”

“Yeah, that hair's a good reminder to the kids 'bout foolin' round with the electircal!”

“An' what's that smell? Smell like that should have fruit flies all around his head!”

“Damndest-lookin' Indyun I ever saw! Looks kinda like that singer we seen on TV that time. What's 'is name now? James Brown? Yeah. We got us one James Brown-lookin' Indian here!”

“Come on,” Stanley said once people started moving away. “There's a buncha people up at my house been feelin' kinda down 'cause they figured you weren't comin'. Seein' you's gonna make 'em all feel a whole lot better. You okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Least, I think so. It's kinda weird, man.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I guess so. Wanted to ease you in slow but you weren't on the bus. What happened?”

“Nothin', man,” I said. “Don't matter.”

“Least you're here now,” he said. “That's all we wanted. Took a long time to find you.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “Tell me about it.”

They been comin' for our kids long time now. Nothin' new. Not for us. They been comin' on the sly for years. I always thought it was us Indyuns s'posed to do all the sneakin' and creepin' around. But those white people, boy, they got us beat when it come to sneakin' through the bushes. Maybe we taught 'em too much. Heh, heh, heh
.

The boy's story's not much diff'rent from what we seen around here for a long time. Sure, in them movies us Indyuns are always runnin' off with children and raisin' them up savage. Give 'em funny-soundin' names like Found on the Prairie, Buffalo Dog or somethin'. I always figured they shoulda called 'em Wind in His Pants, Plenty Bingos, Busts Up Laughing or Sneaks Off Necking. Somethin' really Indyun. Heh, heh, heh. But in the real world it's the white people kept on sneakin' off with our kids. Guess they figured they were doin' us a favor. Gonna give them kids the benefit of good white teachin', raise them up proper. Only thing they did was create a whole new kinda Indyun. We used to call them Apples before we really knew what was happenin'. Called 'em Apples on accounta they're red on the outside and white on the inside. It was a cruel joke on accounta it was never their fault. Only those not livin' with respect use that term now
.

But we lost a generation here. In the beginning it was the missionary schools. Residential schools they called them. Me I
was there. They come and got me when I was five and took me and a handful of others. The boy's mother was one of them. They took us and cut off our hair, dressed us in baggy clothes so we all looked the same, told us our way of livin' and prayin' was wrong and evil. Got beat up for speakin' Indyun. If we did that we'd all burn in hell they told us. Me I figured I was already brown why not burn the rest of the way, so I ran away. Came back here. Lots of others stayed though. Lots never ever came back and them that did were real diff'rent. Got the Indyun all scraped off their insides. Like bein' Indyun was a fungus or somethin'. They scraped it all off and never put nothin' there to replace it but a bunch of fear and hurt. Seen lotsa kids walkin' around like old people after a while. Them schools were the beginning of how we started losin' our way as a people
.

Then they came with their Children's Aid Society. Said our way was wrong and kids weren't gettin' what they needed, so they took 'em away. Put 'em in homes that weren't Indyun. Some got shipped off long ways. Never made it back yet. Disappeared. Got raised up all white but still carryin' brown skin. Hmmpfh. See, us we know you can't make a beaver from a bear. Nature don't work that way. Always gotta be what the Creator made you to be. Biggest right we all got as human bein's is the right to know who we are. Right to be who we are. But them they never see that. Always thinkin' they know what's best for people. But it's not their fault. When you quit lookin' around at nature you quit learnin' the natural way. The world gets to be somethin' you gotta control so you're always fightin' it. Us we never fight the world. We look around lots, find its rhythm, its heartbeat, and learn to walk that way. Concrete ain't got no
rhythm, and steel never learned to breathe. You spend time in the bush and on the land, you learn the way of the bush and the way of the land. The natural way. Way of the universe. Spend time surrounded by concrete and steel, you learn their way too, I guess
.

Back when I was a boy there was still a strong bunch of us livin' the old way. Lot of us crossed over since then and with those of us who's left maybe only a handful still practicin' the old way. Rest are Catholic and some other whiteman way. S'okay though. They're still our people no matter how they pray on accounta prayin's the most important thing anyway. Long as there's some kinda prayer there's some kinda hope. But there's not many of us old traditional people left walkin' around. Not many for the young ones to come to no more. That's why you hear more English than Anishanabe around here. Some other places too. Other tribes, other Indyuns. S'why it's so important for old guys like me to be passin' on what we know. I'm not talkin' about bringin' back the buffalo hunt or goin' back to the wigwam. I'm talkin' about passin' on the
spirit
of all those things. If you got the spirit of the old way in you, well, you can handle most anythin' this new world got to throw around. The spirit of that life's our traditions. Things like respect, honesty, kindness and sharin'. Those are our traditions. Livin' that old tribal way taught people those things. That they needed each other just to survive. Same as now. Lookin' around at nature taught the old ones that. Nature's fulla respect, honesty, kindness and sharin'. S'way of the world, I guess
.

But lotsa our people think that just learnin' the culture's gonna be their salvation. Gonna make 'em Indyun. Lotsa
young ones out there learnin' how to beat the pow-wow drum and sing songs. Learnin' the dances and movin' around on the pow-wow trail ev'ry summer. Lotsa people growin' hair and goin' to see ceremony. Think they're more Indyun that way. S'good to see. But there's still lotsa people out there still drinkin', beatin' each other up, raisin' their kids mean. All kindsa things. That's not our way. So just doin' the culture things don't make you no Indyun. Lotsa white people doin' our culture too now and they're never gonna be Indyun. Always just gonna be lookin' like people that can't dance. Heh, heh, heh
.