Arts & Récits Autochtones - When An Elder Dies

The first thought running through my head was no. It can’t be. Didn’t I just see him? We had

such a good time, he couldn’t possibly be gone now.

But this was the reality. What sinks in now? Not the reality, you still sit there and shake your

head, wondering your way around the indefinite fact that you will never see that person again.

You’re in that place where you know it can’t possibly be a dream, because the pain is too

much, and yet you’re floating as if there wasn’t the earth beneath you.

For me it didn’t set in until weeks later when I was alone, in the city.

The questions that had been raised when he died had of course been apart of your thoughts

when you first found out, but had they really gotten to you? The implications of “what

happens now” finally hits you in the throat and seizes the air from reaching your lungs.

Now you’ve done it, I think to myself. You’ve pushed as far as you can, tried so hard to deny

your identity when you were younger because you thought you had all the time in the world.

You thought that once you were older you’d be willing to learn but now that old man can’t help

you anymore. Because you thought that, you have to reach out to other teachers past that

shatter shell of yours. You know, the one that the old man could see right past because he

had one of those too once. Maybe he kept it.

And when you’re alone the reasoning and emotions seem louder, and you can’t really

remember what a conversation is like, or even what your own voice sounds like.

So you batter yourself down; you had to be so resilient didn’t you? You tried so hard to be

white and fit in and blend in and now you remember the things you did to make sure that

everyone knew you were normal, you could play white.

And the worse realization as that little brown kid you’re now reduced to is wishing you could

go back and change your childhood and fit it into that traditional dream of what you could’ve

been, what the old man aspired his grandchildren would become. And even worse you think

back that you didn’t need them, those people they judged you anyways no matter how hard

you tried. You were that indian kid to them anyways, so what would they have cared if you

actually lived like an indian?

And now in your apartment in the city, with your life, your school cheques and your little set

up was all a lie. They don’t teach you how to become Anishnaabe, they don’t mention how

hard it will be to fight for it back, but they say you only amount to what you’ve done in their

world.

Your realizations come out that you really didn’t learn anything from them. You learned to

become a member of their society, not an individual contributing member to your life and

well-being like that man was trying to teach you.

And it makes sense because you didn’t need that. You remember the times were simpler and

all you had to do to feel good was listen to the teachings you struggle to remember, sitting

around the grandfather drums. It was as easy as breathing when you were with him, you

stupid girl.

It was easy when he didn’t have to push you hard to know because that’s what you grew up

around, when you were really little.

Then the visits were fewer, you had the hardest time remembering. You stopped answering

hisanishnabemowin questions. Because really, did you need them? You just needed to know

English anyways.

The disappointed looks make sense. You always held those against him, like all he was

capable of was perpetual disappointment in you because you could never amount to what

this old man wanted. But that’s not what he was thinking about.

He was probably thinking, there she goes, another one lost to them. They win again. They

took everything from you, your people, down to your bones, and finally, they take away your

hope; the children.

Those little children you thought could escape the cycle and carry on the traditions you were

failed but fought tooth and nail to regain. The alienation was back again, telling them that the

way couldn’t be found inside the lodge, with their people or with their elders.

Okay, stop. Remember what you said? The good times? It sounds like you forgot.

He didn’t resent you. He knew he couldn’t control everything. He and your mom didn’t make

you go to town for school. The law did. He didn’t make your school not include your culture.

But what now? I’m crying because it hurts, not because it solves anything. He left us at such

a crucial time. Maybe I want to learn now! I want him back.

Maybe it’s time to see what it’s all about. As you recall from stories told about him, he wasn’t

into this life before either. He was like you. Not sure about much in life. What had come over

him to switch from that white dream into the good life?

Fine, I will.

If he did it a long time ago, found his way back to the lodge, then you can too. And you have

somewhere to start. He didn’t leave you with nothing. The old man, when he treaded through

dirt, hate and strong currents, he carved a path for you to be able to follow too. Follow them.

*****

Listening to the teachings anew, I love it, I missed it. But maybe something deeper in me

missed it too.

And suddenly you can’t remember something; when did you decide that this is what everyone

else would’ve wanted from you to this becoming what you wanted?

Because it is. I’d never trade it for any other, anytime, to anyone or anything.

Somewhere, despite this being your moment of revelation, you can feel that old man smiling

smugly on the other side. He knew you would come around. They don’t always, but he knew

you would.

So what happens when an elder dies? Does he die silenced with what he held, or does it

carry on inside of you? Will you let it?

It’s just going to be a little harder, when they’re gone.