there’s an old legend, from the interior valley where i was born about how death came into this world and i will tell you as it was told to me. different tellings exist amongst the different nations and this is the one told to me as a child.
in the time before time, there was no death. everyone lived forever. raven, a greedy chief of the north, came upon the great coyote and along with his friends crow and worm and maggot, beseeched coyote that all things should die and be dead always because there would be too many people and animals eventually. they said this with one side of their laughing mouths, but truly they wanted to have a great feast of yummy and delicious rotten meat. coyote, thought for a while, and suggested that perhaps death could be like a long sleep. raven said no. death would be death and that was that. death would be forever.
coyote agreed, “and then it is done” he said.
and from that moment on, all things would die.
raven’s daughter was the first to fall ill.
she grew weak and sick, slipping away.
raven’s daughter was the first to die.
raven was distraught, and he flew to coyote to beg before him – “take it back”, he squawked through his tears. “take it back,” he bawled. the grief he felt was the first grief, the first pain of loss.
but coyote would not.
“it is done”, coyote said.
and this is how death came to this world.
raven was first to feel grief and he wears black forever, for always.
lunch break and i walk to the beach where the city tried to cover up the goose shit with lots of new sand.
girls on blankets and beach towels are getting tans in thong bikinis, sunning their butt cheeks. kids make sandcastles and jump in the wading area of the mighty thompson river.
there’s a breeze and it catches the heady scent of coconut tanning lotion, beers drank sneakily out of coolers, hot dogs, weed smoke and promise.
desert city summer – here you are, it would seem and we all come out into the heat to worship at the banks of the twins rivers who give this city her name. and this city is a wiry bitch carrying a fringed leather bag wearing cut off jean shorts ready to start and finish some shit at the bingo hall, full of love and pain all rolled into one.
a girl stops me on the beach as i walk and I notice she is beautiful with her hair wet from the river, big tall boyfriend with her. she says she likes my outfit and i tell her thank you. she asks where i got my belt buckle and i say a flea market, from and old dude in a tent who sold belt buckles only. people love turquoise and today it looks like i carved out a little piece of the desert city sky and put it on the silver buckle.
some guys pull up on jetskis and start throwing water around. guys being dudes.
i pick up feathers on the beach. not many left today because moulting is almost over but i still get some nice ones. i carry them with me, the girl with the feathers.
little kids play in the water park and they look so happy. tourists in canada shirts take photos in front of the native themed statues and eat big ice cream cones. someone is smoking crack under the big oak tree.
a young dude asks about my tattoos and normally this annoys me but today it doesn’t. he’s nervous to get one and asks where i go and i tell him. he asks if they hurt and i think he’s hoping ill say they don’t, but i laugh and say of course they do. he really wants to get one in memory of his grandfather. he misses him and i know that feeling. i miss nimishoomis, my grandfather and his devilish smile and his pocket full of butterscotch candies and his coal black hair and chocolate brown eyes.
i close my eyes in the park and breathe in slowly. i feel so alive and real and wild. i wish i could show the frightened girl i used to be, the woman i have become.
it is so fucking beautiful.
the city and the river and the grief and the love and the people. my throat tightens as i try to swallow it all down.
i hope that kid gets a really cool tattoo someday.
there’s something about a pow wow and maybe it’s the drive there, rural roads and dusty dash. maybe it’s the sweet grass on my rear view mirror and rap music on the radio. maybe it’s the way i feel myself relax when i step through the doors and hear the announcers voice, or the smell of lemonade and ndn tacos. maybe it’s the way my throat gets tight when i hear that drum and the jingles and the laughter of the aunties and the little ones.
maybe it’s in the turquoise and belt buckles and tobacco ties and moose meat for dinner and the opening prayer and the swell of the intertribals and reconnecting with old friends and the specials and the way it all just feels like home with the suitcases and otter fur and eagle plumes and vendors with their beadwork and someone making moccasins and all i want is to stay stay stay.
it’s the “hokah!” and the flags and the veterans and the way they recognize those too young to serve who served anyways and i think of nimishoomis. it’s kokum scarves and ribbon skirts and my mother missing my father and the way he would say “we gotta sing loud drum loud because we have lots of things to make up for” but also how he didn’t want to be seen as “just some indian”.
it’s the way i didn’t realize how lost i had become until i started finding myself again amongst the drums and my aunties and my cousins and the sage and the stories of my kokum and nanaboozhoo and the way beadwork quiets what all those pills never could.
it’s the thrill of a loonie auction and midnight lunches and hands held in the bleachers and the way i never want to go back to office life grocery store meal prep mom car water cooler gossip.
its the way i linger at the door of the threshold
it’s the way i hit the pow wow trail hoping to understand my late father and instead im understanding me.
i feed the geese in the park. apparently you aren’t supposed to but everybody does. i bring them blueberries and tell them that they’re good geese even though they’re usually actually quite foul tempered and actually, bad geese.
i grow fond of a bonded pair and i call the male “poppa”. they follow me sometimes and give me their goosey head tilts and hiss at me if i don’t make with the berries quick enough. one time a security guard yelled at me for feeding them. he said feeding birds is bad and i think of all the crows and seagulls posted outside mcdonalds hoping for a dirty ass old french fry to come their way and i nod and shrug and play dumb.
ive been saying to the geese that there’s no such thing as a free lunch and that when they’re ready im expecting a feather or two. i really want a real big goose feather for my hat. feathers are few and far between until last week in the parking lot i see a huge feather blowing in the wind and i slam on the brakes and yank my keys out of the car and go chasing after it, much to the amusement of an older man who feeds the crows.
“did you get it?” he calls across the parking lot and i did and i go up and show him and he’s amused at my craziness but then i tell him about how feathers are important and how they’re gifts from creator, good medicine and his amusement turns to excitement for me. he says he will keep an eye out for feathers for me.
i am delighted with the feather. i wrap it safely in my car and begin my walk to work. as i walk, i find another feather. just as huge.
my tax return came in.
walking the beach later that week, there are feathers everywhere. the geese are molting and there’s so many baby geese waddling around. I end up surrounded by geese on the beach as tourists from china take photos.
a tourist from australia asks if i can take her photo with the geese and i do. she becomes emotional looking at them, tears rolling down her face. i get emotional because she is emotional. two women crying over baby geese in the park.
i collect feathers so my mother and i can bead them for smudging, for ceremony and a rude lady stomps up to me and tells me i can’t keep the feathers. i tell her i can and with my eyes i dare her to make a fuss of it. goose feathers are legal to own. she says they aren’t. i tell her im native and she replies, “you don’t look it”.
i just laugh and greet her in anishinaabemowin.
she backs down and stomps back to her bewildered husband who she left eating ice cream on the boardwalk. but she doesn’t bother me. surrounded by babies and life and humans being human together watching the babies and watching life, i feel strangely transcendent and happy.
an older native guy greets me and we talk about the babies and the river and pow wow coming up. i ask if he’s dancing and he says he’s too old but he’s gonna go watch and asks if he will see me there. i say yeah and tell him to check out my cousins bannock burgers. he says he can’t wait. and we talk about fish and life and watch the babies.
i come home with so many feathers and i feel really lucky about it. an elder told me that any feather we receive is medicine from creator and our feathered relatives. sacred.
i dream about feathers and my friend katie who died.
the geese are in the park again when i walk to work.
