Our left hands clasped in firm embrace
chowilawu, whites use the right to show disarmament
we use the left because it is closest to the heart
Our right hands went to the heart within our chests
this is your drum, my son, it is your rhythm of life
it is given to you by the Mother, it is meant to be shared
He leaned forward and touched together our foreheads
there is a large circled vein surrounding your brain
it cools and provides your mind sustenance
it feeds the feeling and empathy receptors in the front
We held this position for several minutes
the blood is physical, chowilawu, and we have shared it
it is also energy and as it flows it moves from me to you
it has become a closed loop circle between us
the Mother provides us ways and we must be aware
the heart is blood and flow and oxygen and so much more
or, you can merely show another that you are unarmed
We chuckled together as we shared our greeting
I raise my hands to you, cousin, for his beautiful piece. My people are from Northern Saskatchewan but I hang on the coast now with a mix of Stolo, Kwantlen, Katze, and a bunch of Metis.
I saw your Memengwaa piece on the fb page and I gasped. I wrote 2 pieces about our missing cousins, sisters, aunties, and mothers. I’ll leave a link to my stuff here.
Thank you for your voice.
https://thepoetrymarathon.com/blog/ramonaelke/rita-joe-language-warningcontent-warning/
I don’t know how I missed this during the 24 period of seeking contact and a word or two of solace and understanding. But, I have seen it now and am delighted you went to my FB page. I hope you like it (there is a lot of “stuff” there LOL good and not so good but always from the heart). Life is serendipitous my friend. I have this feeling we will come to know much more about each other in the coming times. By the way, I am one of those “lost” ones. My father was adopted but did not find out until he was 78 years old. He always thought and had been tod he was 100% Icelandic. Come to find out he was 0% Icelandic but rather adopted out of a since closed down orphanage in Vancouver. Mother from somewhere in northern Alberta and father from the southwest United States. His mother was of mixed northern Alberta type origins (no one knows her now that I have found). His father was a weird mix of Dine’é and Hopi. I found out of the pending identity crisis when I was 58 years old. LOL Jokes on me. LOL Discovered I had an Apache brother (in the loosest but also an actual and real “blood” way). Several years older than me. shaman.medicine man.elder in the old ways. Took me under his wing. Started this part of my journey. He gave me a few “assignments” in life before he passed away and laughed quite heartily when he told me my “quotient” won’t hold up when the brothers want to see the proof that I am allowed to speak, nor, do I have any “documents” or even living family to qualify my actions, nor, any of the life long learnt things the people expect BUT he named me, gave me two feathers for battles already fought, a bit of his blood as he took mine, a few contacts in his band in Arizona, a bit of coffee, some smoke, and a slap on the ass as he said, “Now get fucking busy.”
I say all this (too wordy eh?) only to get it out of the way. Some accept it. Some don’t. None of my business actually. I have a heart and I live with it, by it, and for it.
Yes, I use a lot of words when I get carried away.
I am so happy you do. This crossing of paths was definitely meant to be.
My story is similar to yours. My mother’s mother’s mother would tell me about how the “Indians” would come around all of the time. She would talk about it often in her drift to her old age via childhood. I thought nothing of it until about 20 years ago when I kept dreaming about elders and animals and hearing words from our people that would not leave me. So many people would tell me I looked Indian, I was constantly led to work with aboriginal kids at school, and my connections seemed to be to aboriginal people.
My mother’s father was an Orangeman (Canadian version of KKK), so any “coming out Indian” would not be on. I tried to tell my mother about all of this, of our history, but she laughed.
I decided that I would honour it because I have had too many dreams and too many signs to not do so. I burst into tears (as discretely as i could) at a teacher event when an indigenous writer was talking about how he was relieved to find out his history…that he would dream about people with faces like his. I dreamed, the night before we went to the long house for another teacher training day, that I was sitting in a sweat, surrounded by the male elders and they told me it was time to learn about my ancestors. I have dreamed that I stood facing the north shore mountains and a line of women drummers gave me the women’s warrior song. I have dreamed I was an eagle and a bear.
Like you, I have lost the care that people won’t believe me. I know who I am.
Thank you for your words. I am not afraid of stories. Share whenever you like.
All my relations.