The Mi'kmaq Anthology Read online

  The

  Mi’kmaq

  Anthology

  edited by

  Rita Joe & Lesley Choyce

  Pottersfield Press

  Lawrencetown Beach

  Nova Scotia

  © Copyright 1997 Pottersfield Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Main entry under title:

  The Mi’kmaq anthology

  ISBN 1-895900-04-2

  ISBN EPUB 978-1-988286-20-4

  1. Canadian literature (English) — Indian authors. * 2. Canadian literature (English) — 20th century. *3 Micmac Indians — Literary collections. 4. Indians of North America — Atlantic Provinces — Literary collections. I. Joe, Rita, 1932- II. Choyce, Lesley, 1951-

  PS8235.16M55 1997

  C810.8’08973

  C97-850013-3

  PR9194.515M55 1997

  Pottersfield Press gratefully acknowledges the ongoing support of the Nova Scotia Department of Education, Cultural Affairs Division, as well as the Canada Council and the Department of Canadian Heritage.

  Cover painting by Lorne Julien

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Pottersfield Press

  Lawrencetown Beach

  83 Leslie Road, East Lawrencetown

  Nova Scotia, Canada, B2Z 1P8

  Contents

  Introduction — Rita Joe

  Don Julien

  Traditional Stories

  Lindsay Marshall

  Murdena Marshall

  Mary Louise Martin

  Elsie Charles Basque

  Shirley Kiju Kawi

  Noel Knockwood

  Helen Sylliboy

  Marie Battiste

  Theresa Meuse

  Isabelle Knockwood

  Katherine Sorbey

  Daniel N. Paul

  Sunset Rose Morris

  Harold Gloade

  Rita Joe

  Contributors

  Introduction

  In the Mi’kmaq world of pre-European times our stories were told in petroglyphs, hieroglyphs or other character artwork where we showed what was going on in our lives. Now that we know many different forms of writing, there is no stopping our written material.

  I first met Lesley Choyce when he asked me to speak to his Transition Year Program students at Dalhousie University in Halifax. From that time we have had periodic meetings concerning education. One day we had a discussion about an anthology written by many different Mi’kmaq writers. I liked that idea because we are now creating the writing instead of just being written about. When Lesley asked me to co-edit a book of Mi’kmaq writers I jumped at the chance.

  When the manuscripts of many Mi’kmaq writers arrived I read through them. I had many strong reactions. For example, memories flooded my mind concerning the residential school. I have always tried to think of that place in a positive way, but it is hard to do so when some of the stories are chronicled by my former classmates. There was the poor girl whose vomit and food was spooned back into her mouth when she was too weak to resist. I too had seen a lot of that sort of thing. I even asked one woman in Eskasoni if she remembered when it was done to her. I am glad she does not. I do remember what happened now and it is not a pleasant memory. I remember my friend Mary Agnes Ward who had just turned sixteen and was happy that soon she would be leaving the school after being there over nine years. Tragically, she died after receiving a beating. That beating cannot be disputed because all two hundred children were in the dining room when it happened. I saw her distorted face when we went to our work in the kitchen. It is no wonder that the place was haunted. There was so much trauma taking place there.

  Another young fellow I pitied was Maurice Young who used to throw spitballs at us. He drove the girls up the wall but it was very sad when he was taken to the hospital for a simple operation. We were told later that he died of fright. Some of these people never had a chance; their lives ended by something I can never understand even today. Nonetheless, a lot of these people left the residential schools and advanced into successful careers. Being told every day that you will not amount to anything makes you work all the harder to improve yourself. The one story I like above all others is about one girl who became a highly educated professional. She went back to one of her tormentors and she said, “Look at what I have become, Sister.” There were no further words spoken; the profession said it all.

  I have never attended the gatherings held in Millbrook Reserve for voicing the concerns about the victims of the residential school. The reason is that I do not consider myself a victim. I have no one to blame for going to that place. When I was twelve years old I wrote to the Indian Agent, H.C. Rice of Shubenacadie, to pick me up at my step-brother’s house in Oxford Junction. I wanted to learn, not knowing what, but just to learn something. The Mi’kmaq used to call the place “College,” so in my childish mind it was a place of learning. There was physical abuse and mental mistreatment as well as the denial of our cultural values and language. The chronicle of such abuse is well-written in Isabelle Knockwood’s book, Out of the Depths. I once asked Isabelle why she named the book that title. She said, “Remember when we used to kneel and pray, ‘Out of the depths I have cried to thee O Lord?’” I prayed with all of my heart to be removed from the place and it never happened. I understand her logic because I used to think that way too, after the disappointment dawned on me that the “College” was not good. Today I think differently. Whatever I have become, it was because of the events shaping that part of my life.

  If the time comes to testify to what I saw, I will tell the truth. The book Out of the Depths is like a release for many of us, the release of a hurt held so long. Once you can tell somebody your story, you can have a good cry. When I learned that some of the nuns were alive I visited the one I used to like. We went into each other’s arms and wept. But the one who used to make my life hell I never wanted to see.

  In the 1990s the unfair attitudes are not as bad as before. They remain mostly small-town habits which do not die easily. The majority of the people who have their low opinions of other cultures keep it to themselves. An educated person knows enough not to bend to that level. I myself do not feel any different than anybody else. I’d rather you accept me as a person who tried to bridge that gap to better understanding with the First Nations of Canada.

  After reading Dan Paul’s version of early history, however, I get mad all over again. He is right when he says that we were not the savages at that period of time. If one reads carefully and realizes the damage that a man like Edward Cornwallis has done to a part of humanity in our country, you would have to think again before bestowing honour by using his name on any building or community. Cornwallis may have thought in his time that he was doing what was right — the bounties on Native scalps were even used to supplement the newcomers’ income. How low must one get. Even when the scalping of Mi’kmaq people for profit was stopped in 1752, many Europeans continued the barbaric act. In 1753, two white men whose lives were saved by six Mi’kmaq returned the kindness by killing those who saved them. The story that Mi’kmaq scalps were brought to Halifax by the bagful is beyond understanding. Such was the extreme cruelty undertaken by civilized man to his fellow man. I have seen the scalping proclamation. It always hurt when reading it, but in my mind I always believed in the practice of forgiveness that my people used and it must still remain in effect in my time. Governor Cornwallis’s words must have held great power if they caused so many people to kill oth
er humans — including women and children — just for money.

  It is ironic that Cornwallis is honoured. His words and deeds are well recorded, even the deeds of human atrocity. It makes me wonder how much honour is considered for the many Aboriginal people whose blood was spilled on their homelands that were taken from them. The public archives, I notice, are full of biased chronicles written in early times, mostly misrepresenting the truth of the First Nations people. I have often told my children that if we recorded our own history through writing, it would have been different. Who knows, maybe someday a record will be discovered written by Aboriginals in the many lands they lived.

  The statements I have read suggested that we left no written record and this drove me to research the wampum. I had heard from my people that it was a record of our past. The explanations can only be read by certain Native individuals. At last I learned of a Mohawk Indian who operated a small museum in Onchiota, New York. In 1970, my husband Frank knew how determined I was to find the man who could read the wampum. Ray Fadden was a determined Native like me, although he was a more educated person who did not like what he had heard about his people since he was a child. He knew there was more goodness in the Aboriginals that was not recorded by early historians. In further studies, he learned to read the wampum, the early recording of the different tribes. It was an amazing find when we finally met the man who had gone to many countries to do his research on Aboriginal recordings. We kept in touch a long time. It was overwhelming for me to comprehend how much of our culture has been lost. In my second book, The Song of Eskasoni, I began to argue with the historical account of non-recording by my people. It may not look like a standard record that other cultures may read, but if further studies are done, it may help us recover a long-lost honour knocked down by the dominant society.

  My third book, L’nu and Indians We’re Called, also pursues the subject of misinterpretation of my culture. When the missionary, Chrestian LeClercq, saw Mi’kmaq children writing on the ground and asked the Natives what it was, he was informed that it was a form of communication the Mi’kmaq used. LeClercq learned the figures and used them in his teachings. The missionary goes on to say, “The preservation of the written word was in so much care, they kept them in little cases of birch bark, beautified with wampum of beadwork and quills.” So here is evidence that the written word in Mi’kmaq is mentioned by a reputable recorder of the people encountered. Other missionaries studied the symbols and possibly added more in order to teach the word of God.

  The stone writings in Nova Scotia are a message too. Here the artwork was done by women. I learned that when you look at a symbol long enough you eventually get the message the artists intended.

  The Mi’kmaq had no religion, some early historians say. How does one know of the practices of another culture if one does not understand the meaning of their chants or dances? I know my people fasted for days at a time, and when one abstains from food and water, finally a person has visions of supernatural beings. I often wonder how our Creator, who had compassion for childlike people, may have shown himself to them. When I read early history I always try to interpret the words the explorers heard, trying to sound them out in my own way. I’ve heard of the word, Kisulkip (which means Creator). Kisulkip was everything to the Native people. Some people think he may have been Glooscap. Although my people had strong beliefs of their own, they readily adapted to the Christian belief, as if they had known it before.

  Let me talk about when I first went into a sweat lodge. First of all, I asked my ancestors to help me. I prayed for the two-legged and the four-legged; my prayer included everybody and all things who may benefit, to see and experience everything that is good. When we finally finished the sweat lodge and we came out, I did not understand what was happening. Everything had an aura, there was an enhancement of colour. The next day I told my son. He said, “Your purification ceremony was a success.” I know for a fact my people did the sweat lodge ceremony as often as possible. The Mi’kmaq word, alasutmokon, means a place of prayer. This word was in their vocabulary well before the non-Aboriginal contact.

  By taking part in the different sacred ceremonies I am trying to develop an understanding of communication. My people went into the lodge to pray, asking questions and trying to solve the problems they had at their time. I know they were good, honest, compassionate — and our Creator knew this. Who knows what spiritual entities the Mi’kmaq encountered? There were shamans, too, who saw things others could not. Certain men and women had this ability, and in their dances and songs it was understood that Kisulkip is given the salutation by raising the right hand to the sky. When the pipe is lit, the leader smokes and prays, blowing the smoke upwards. He passes the pipe to the person to the left, turning the stem clockwise. The pipe is passed around several times and then it is put away very carefully. The peace pipe has to be earned. The other people know when you have earned the right to own a pipe. I have often had the opportunity to smoke, aiming my prayers to the sky with the image of my Kisulkip in mind. The messages you receive come from other sources, a person will say — a spiritual force. The answers are there and only you know what they are.

  Right now my body is weak. This shaking body from head to foot makes me realize so much needs to be done, but I am so determined to show how much we knew about our Creator. Every part of Mi’kmaq life was for the betterment of our people, and if the so-called founders did not agree that we were Christian enough, their shortsightedness missed all the goodness we have tried to show. We helped heal the newcomers of scurvy and we shared our food. Anything the explorers asked for, they received. Yet, in the European settlement that took place, much blood was spilled by my people. I dare to say to everyone now, look at us in a Christian way. Join our celebrations, sing the honour song, take part in our ceremonies. My Kisulkip and my God are the same. If we take part in each other’s ceremonies, we may find something that each of us never fully understood: unity and love in the eyes of the Spirit. Leave the past in the past, experience each day to learn about one another, and then the harmony will grow like the seed of wisdom.

  Taho!

  Rita Joe

  March 5, 1997

  Unanswered Questions

  In his recent book of poetry titled Clay Pots and Bones, Chief Lindsay Marshall of Chapel Island, Cape Breton, writes:

  Dear successive fathers:

  Explain to me, please, when did the

  change take place from owners

  to wards of the selfish state?

  Write down the reasons why

  the land under our feet became

  foreign soil in perpetuity…

  When it comes to Mi’kmaq history, there are many unanswered questions for all of us. Poets pose some of those questions. Mi’kmaq historians attempt to reveal truths that have long been hidden. Many writers in this volume tell us stories from their own lives to reveal experience, tradition, knowledge and spiritual understanding. Ancient stories handed down provide insight into a way of looking at the world that differs greatly from the messages we receive on TV, in the newspapers and from our political leaders.

  The Mi’kmaq Anthology is a project that has been in the works for about six years. I am indebted to Rita Joe for working with me to bring this book to life. Even as it goes to press, I realize that there are many more fine Mi’kmaq writers out there whose voices should be heard. And they will find their audience in years to come. This volume, then, is not all-inclusive, nor does it pretend to be. We have gathered together these writers for now and look forward to seeing the publications of other Mi’kmaq authors. We hope this anthology encourages emerging writers to tell their stories and share their work.

  The Mi’kmaq Anthology, I hope, will act as a milestone that states what Mi’kmaq literature is today. Clearly there is a substantial body of written work that deserves an audience and also deserves to find its way into schools and universities.

  These writers express both pain and joy, outrage and celebration. Ther
e is wisdom here to be shared and readers are asked to let down their own defenses to allow the words into their lives.

  Mi’kmaq words in the text are generally not italicized, a practice usually reserved for foreign vocabulary, for there is certainly nothing foreign about this language. Spelling of Mi’kmaq words may vary in accordance with the design of each author and we have respected individual authorial choice in regards to Micmac, Mi’kmaq or Mi’kmaw.

  I am deeply appreciative of all the writers who gave us permission to include their work. Special thanks to Lindsay Marshall for his enthusiasm; Dan Paul, for his insight; Cathy Martin, Clayton Paul, Renate Usmiani, John MacNeil and Patricia Doyle-Bedwell for help in locating various writers; Lome Julien for his fine work of art; Peggy Amirault and Julia Swan for helping to prepare this book for publication; and to my Mi’kmaq students at the Transition Year Program at Dalhousie University for what they have taught me during more than a decade of teaching there.

  Lesley Choyce

  June 26, 1997

  Don Julien

  The Micmac Story

  The real story of the First Nations people in North America is a fantastic tale, and one of the longest sagas in the history of this continent.

  It begins 30,000 to 40,000 years ago with the existence of what archeologists believe must have been a land bridge between the closest points of modern-day Alaska and Siberia.

  The bridge is thought to have endured off and on for about 10,000 years until a sudden change in temperature melted the surrounding ice to form what we now know as the Bering Strait.

  No one knows for certain when the first hunters crossed the land bridge into North America. But it’s most likely they followed trails left by animal herds searching for food and water. From there, they followed the northern foothills of the Alaskan ranges before turning south and east toward the Atlantic Provinces.