Up Ghost River (27 page)

“How do they do that?”

“I don't know too much about it. But there are a lot of people who swear by it. They say that the groups help you find your true path.”

“My true path,” I said, and laughed harshly.

“No point being bitter,” he said.

“Whatever.”

“No, I mean it.”

“Oh, we all mean it.”

“You've got to try.”

“I did,” I said.

“Well, try again.”

“Edmonton is a long way away.”

“You're already a long way from home, brother.”

Edmonton is built on top of old Cree bones. We named it Wheeskwaciwaskahikan, or Beaver Hill, because the mound where they laid the first foundations of the city used to be shaped like three stacked dams. Standing tall, it looked out over where our people—the Woods, Plains and Swampy Crees—lived and roamed. From the Atlantic to the Rockies, Newfoundland to Alberta, this was our land. We watched and listened to the land and animals, and picked up and moved according to their rhythms. Navigating the rivers Albany, Churchill, Saskatchewan, Nelson, St. Lawrence and Athabasca, we followed the caribou, moose and deer. Animals offered themselves to the hunt: flesh to sharpened rock, skin under teeth, blood for our blood. We lived like this for thousands of years, until there were strangers in our midst, people who came on tall ships. They knew not the ways of the land and water, so we fed them and gave them furs. They thanked us with guns and horses, but also with smallpox, and then they slowly pushed us out. Make way for Her Majesty, the Great Queen Mother. Away to the edges, to the tiny plots of land called the reserves.

I drove from Timmins to Edmonton faster than I should have, sleeping in my car. On the way, I listened out for Buffy Sainte-Marie on the radio. She got me every time with her rough and ragged voice that cracked me right open. For three days, I ate in places where I could load up on bacon and eggs and didn't have to eat for the rest of the day. It was pretty hard to call anybody. Payphones were plentiful but you never knew how many coins you needed until the operator broke in and demanded “please deposit three more dollars in quarters, please,” and when you didn't have quite twelve quarters in your pocket, well, the line went dead. My calls were very limited. On the way, I did get through to Brian, who said he thought it was a good idea to try to join a traditional healing group. And I left messages with the priest for Joan. I asked him if he'd seen her about town, and he said that she looked more tired than usual. I felt a rush of love and protectiveness, and waited for him to go on, but the line on the radio phone was bad so we hung up.

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.”