Indians Don't Cry: Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg 9780887557699, 9780887554766, 9780887554742

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Fiction / Indigenous Studies

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

Indians Don’t Cry

George Kenny is an Anishinaabe poet and playwright who learned traditional ways from his parents before being George Kenny is from Lac Seul First Nation in northwestern Ontario. He is currently completing a master’s degree in Environmental Studies so that he can continue to write about the culture of Anishinaabe people of Lac Seul and the English River, the source of his creativity.

Renate Eigenbrod (1944–2014) taught Native Studies at the University of Manitoba and was the author of Travelling Knowledges: Positioning

sent to residential school in 1958. When Kenny published his first book, 1977’s Indians Don’t Cry, he joined the ranks of Indigenous writers such as Maria Campbell, Basil Johnston, and

Indians Don’t Cry

Indians Don’t Cry: Gaawin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg is the

Rita Joe, whose work melded art and

second book in the First Voices,

political action. Hailed as a landmark in

First Texts series, which includes

the history of Indigenous literature in

lost or underappreciated texts by

Canada, this new edition is expected to

Indigenous artists. This new bilingual

inspire a new generation of Anishinaabe

edition includes a translation of

writers with poems and stories that

Kenny’s poems and stories into

depict the challenges of Indigenous

Anishinaabemowin by Patricia M.

people confronting and finding ways to

Ningewance and an afterword by

live within urban settler society.

literary scholar Renate Eigenbrod.

the Im/Migrant Reader of Aboriginal Literatures in Canada.

First Voices, First Texts

Anishinaabe translator from Lac Seul First Nation. She has more than

ISBN 978-0-88755-769-9

thirty years’ experience in language teaching, translation and media work.

90000

University of Manitoba Press uofmpress.ca

9 780887 557699

$24.95 CAD / $27.95 USD

Kenny

Patricia M. Ningewance is an

Series Editor: Warren Cariou

George Kenny Edited and with an afterword by Renate Eigenbrod Anishinaabemowin translation by Patricia M. Ningewance

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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First Voices, First Texts series editor: warren cariou

First Voices, First Texts aims to reconnect contemporary readers with some of the most important Aboriginal literature of the past, much of which has been unavailable for decades. This series reveals the richness of these works by providing newly re-edited texts that are presented with particular sensitivity toward Indigenous ethics, traditions, and contemporary realities. The editors strive to indigenize the editing process by involving communities, by respecting traditional protocols, and by providing critical introductions that give readers new insights into the cultural contexts of these unjustly neglected classics. 1. Devil in Deerskins: My Life with Grey Owl by Anahareo 2. Indians Don't Cry / Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg by George Kenny

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Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

INDIANS

DON’T CRY GEORGE KENNY Edited and with an afterword by Renate Eigenbrod Anishinaabemowin translation by Patricia M. Ningewance

UMP

University of Manitoba Press

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University of Manitoba Press Winnipeg, Manitoba Canada R3T 2M5 uofmpress.ca © George Kenny 2014 Afterword © Estate of Renate Eigenbrod 2014 Translation © Patricia M. Ningewance 2014 Printed in Canada Text printed on chlorine-free, 100% post-consumer recycled paper 18 17 16 15 14

1 2 3 4 5

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database and retrieval system in Canada, without the prior written permission of the University of Manitoba Press, or, in the case of photocopying or any other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency). For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca, or call 1-800-893-5777. Cover and interior illustrations: Ahmoo Angeconeb, from Indians Don’t Cry (1977) Cover design: Mike Carroll Interior design: Jess Koroscil Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication Kenny, George, 1952–, author Indians don’t cry = Gaawiin mawisiiwag anishinaabeg / George Kenny ; edited and with an afterword by Renate Eigenbrod ; Anishinaabemowin translation by Patricia M. Ningewance. (First voices, first texts ; 2) “Originally published in 1977, Indians Don’t Cry was republished in 1982, and included an additional eight poems and two short stories. The current edition is based on that expanded edition.”--Afterword. Includes bibliographical references. Issued in print and electronic formats. Poems and short stories in English with Anishinaabegmowin translation on facing pages; introduction and afterword in English. ISBN 978-0-88755-769-9 (pbk.) ISBN 978-0-88755-476-6 (pdf ) ISBN 978-0-88755-474-2 (epub) I. Ningewance, Patricia M., translator II. Eigenbrod, Renate, 1944–2014, editor III. Title. IV. Title: Gaawiin mawisiiwag anishinaabeg. V. Series: First voices, first texts ; 2 PS8571.E63I5165 2014

C811’.54

C2014-903281-1 C2014-903282-X

The University of Manitoba Press gratefully acknowledges the financial support for its publication program provided by the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, the Canada Council for the Arts, the Manitoba Department of Culture, Heritage, Tourism, the Manitoba Arts Council, and the Manitoba Book Publishing Tax Credit.

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Dedicated to my father John, trapper and labourer, who never once rebuked me for my wandering years, collecting experiences, and in memory of my mother Mary Elsie, who encouraged me to go back to school when I dropped out for my last autumn with her before she died. —George Kenny

Nindede John — wanii’igewinini gaye anokiiwinini — ni-mikwenimaa omaa mazina’iganing. Gaawiin wiikaa nin-gii-onji’igosii gii-nitaababaamaadiziyaan amii aaniish eta ge-onji-gikendamaan gegoon. Gaye ni-mikwenimaa nimaamaa Mary Elsie gaa-gii-nitaa-inid ji-giiwe-andogikino’amaagoziyaan, gii-ishkwaa-nagadamaan nin-gikino’amaagoowin apii gii-aakozipan, jibwaa-ishkaa-bimaadizid. —George Kenny

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Contents Translator’s Note - ix

by Patricia M. Ningewance

Indians Don't Cry Rain Dance – Gimiwanishimowin 2/3 Rubbie at Central Park – Minikweshk imaa Central Park 4/5 Indians Don’t Cr y – Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg 6/7 Poor J.W. – J.W.ish 12/13 Lost Friendship – Gaa-waniseg Minowiijiindiwin 14/15 The Bullfrogs Got Theirs – Gaa-wawiiyadiziwaad Gichi-omagakiig 26/27 On the Shooting of a Beaver – E-baashkizond Amik 28/29 How He Served – Gaa-gii-izhi-Wiidookaazod 34/35 Welcome – Minwendaagwan E-dagoshineg 36/37 Death Bird – Nibowin Bineshiinzh 42/43 The Drowning – Nisaabaawewin 44/45 I Don’t Know This October Stranger – Gaawiin Nin-gikenimaasii awe Biiwide Gaa-dagoshing Binaakwe-giizis 52/53 Just Another Bureaucrat – Bezhig eta Miinawaa Zhooniyaa-ogimaaodanokiitamaage 56/57 Second Beauty – Miinawaa onizhishiwin 62/63 Summer Dawn on Loon Lake – E-waabang E-niibing imaa Maangozaaga’iganiing 64/65 Folk Hero: Gerald Bannatyne / Gechi-inenimind: Gerald Bannatyne 74/75 Track Star – Netaa-bimibatood 76/77

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Death Is No Stranger – Gaawiin Mayagendaagozinoon Nibowin 108/109 Legacy – Gaa-naganigooyang 112/113 Broken, I Knew a Man – E-bookoshkaayaan, Nin-gii-gikenimaa Inini 116/117 To: My Friend, the Painter – Ni-wiijiiwaagan Netaa-mazinibii’iged 118/119 Sunset on Portage – E-bangishimod Giizis imaa Portage Miikanaang 120/121 Old Daniel – Daaniyanish 122/123 Kenora Bus Depot – Gaa-izhi-bagamibizod Bas Wazhashkonigamiing 126/127 Pine Tree – Zhingwaak 130/131 In-Family Tribal Warfare – Inawemaaganikaang Gaa-dazhi-miigaading 132/133 Mahkwa (bear) – Makwa 134/135 Soft and Trembling Cr y – Gaa-wiisakwed Niningitaagozid Gaa-mawid 136/137 Bottles – Moodayaabikoon 150/151 Gulls – Gayaashkwag 152/153 Dirty Indian – Anishinaabewish 154/155 Picture of My Father – Gaa-mazinaakizod Nindede 166/167 Ojibway Girl – Anishinaabekwens 170/171 Think On – Naanaagadawendan Giiyaabi 172/173 For Most of Thirteen Years – Awashime Midaashi-niso-biboon 174/175 Afterwor d: George Kenny—Anishinaabe, Son, and Wr iter - 176 by Renate Eigenbrod r efer ences - 188 r emember ing r enate eigenbrod - 191

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Translator's Note I wrote these notes while I translated George Kenny’s book of short stories and poetry, Indians Don’t Cry, in late September 2012. I have been a translator for all of my adult life. The translated material has mostly been documents that cover almost every aspect of modern Anishinaabe life— government, business, science, and education. Translation was an important service in the past because the Native languages were often the only language spoken. In my lifetime, there were many middle-aged and elderly Native people who could not understand English. It was necessary to interpret and translate so that they could comprehend the modern world. Now, the language is disappearing. Those monolingual Native language speakers are dying every year. Only bilingual speakers remain. This Ojibwe translation is therefore intended for a new audience—the language learner. I have used my own dialect (Lac Seul) for this translation because that is the same language that George Kenny speaks. George is also Bear Clan from Lac Seul, and he was my neighbour and classmate at one time. What I’d like to describe here are some of my observations about translating English prose and poetry. What works well in English does not work very well in Anishinaabemowin (Ojibwe language). This is because the situations are modern and the language belongs to an ancient Anishinaabe society. A French language translator will not have the same linguistic situations that I found myself in. I was often in a dilemma. Do I translate and keep close to the original work or do I rewrite the material in Anishinaabemowin and, in that way, convey the mood and intent of the English work? This was especially so in translating the poems. If I rewrote the material to convey the intent of the English work, the Ojibwe language students will go back and forth to the English version to check the meaning. The Anishinaabemowin version will not match the English version word-for-word. And if I translate

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more closely, the Anishinaabemowin version will sound very strange to the Anishinaabe reader. In the end, I stayed in the middle. Description of geographical features was easy and straightforward to translate. Anishinaabemowin has an infinite vocabulary to discuss nature in all its forms. Some problems in translation occurred in description of females. There is much description of females in this book—of their hair, their physique, their features, and their clothing. In the Anishinaabe world, there is usually not much verbalization of a woman’s looks. She either looks good or she does not look good. To dwell on such description is very unusual and it made me, as a translator, feel uncomfortable. For instance, here is one sentence: “Her slim arms pushed the escaping curls back under the white nylon covering that held her auburn hair in a bun” (14). First of all, there is the notion of slimness. In the old days, all Anishinaabe (Ojibwe) women were lean and muscular as a result of their lifestyle. They worked hard physically all day long, every day of their adult lives. And a pre-European contact diet contained very little starch and sugar. Slimness, therefore, was a fact of life. No one was obese. Emaciation was a sign of starvation and not a good thing. Food was scarce. Later on, after Europeans arrived and brought their white flour and sugar, this new food changed the physical contours of Anishinaabe women, and men. Now women had some extra padding on their bodies. Being somewhat padded was seen as a good thing. It meant that one’s husband could afford this new food, or that he was a good provider. The Anishinaabemowin word minogaamo means “is fat in a good way.” There are so many words for leanness and fatness. The words for leanness are not very complimentary: okaniwi (is bony), bizhizhigwaakoganizi (is scrawny and bony), zhiigwaakozi (is scrawny). There is not one word in my Anishinaabemowin vocabulary that is complimentary. Not one. So to translate “her slim arms” was very difficult. “Her bony, scrawny arms” did not do justice to the work. One fellow translator suggested onikensan (her little arms) but that made it sound too humorous. In the end, I left it as “her arms.” She had already been described as being slender. It should suffice to say that if she was slender in her torso, then her arms would not be

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fat. My final translation simply stated that the light-weight woman placed her curly hair back under the white net that her hair was encased in. Another area of difficulty was in translating discussion of love situations. Maybe because there is not a large amount of Anishinaabe romance literature to draw from. Or maybe it is because romance was a luxury in the old, old days of arranged marriages. I remember old stories that my own mother told us. Some of these were legends. There were some love stories, but there was not much description of feelings. It was “boy meets girl and they immediately pair up.” If something came between them, their feelings were not described at all. It was up to the audience to imagine what the young couple was feeling. And when the Ojibwe words for different feelings are used, sometimes there are no English language equivalents for them. How can one say something about a subject when no words for it exist in that language? In George Kenny’s book, there are many situations where love is thwarted or love happens at a snail’s pace. That is realistic and was easy to translate. The only hints at what the characters are feeling are in the descriptions of their actions. In the story “Lost Friendship (Gaa-Waniseg Minowiijiindiwin),” the Mennonite girl is attracted to the Ojibwe boy but nothing ever happens in their relationship. Both come from cultures where romance is not glorified. So feelings are only implied. Likewise, in “Welcome (Minwendaagwan E-dagoshineg),” Paul West experiences a gigantic disappointment when his former girlfriend arrives home. His feelings are only implied. There is only the description of his sudden intense attention to his immediate surroundings. In the story “Track Star (Netaa-bimibatood),” the relationship of Leslie and Caroline is taken a bit further. They actually begin to relate to each other. In Lac Seul Ojibwe, there are three Ojibwe words for love. One (zhawenim) is to love someone like a family member, another (zaagi’) is to like someone, and the third (minwenim) could be used to like or love a lover or boy/girlfriend. I used minwenim to describe their feelings for each other. But this word o-minwenimaan (he/she loves him/her) actually means “he/she thinks well of him/her.” So much for torrid feelings. In traditional Anishinaabe society—at least in Lac Seul before 1970— modesty and humility were characteristics that were adopted by all. No

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one was encouraged to strive to rise above everyone else. As we read in “Track Star (Netaa-bimibatood),” the protagonist does not strive to win the races to be the best. He does it for his own tribe, not for his own personal glory. One never leaves his own community no matter how far he goes away from it. He is forever modest and humble. These values permeated Ojibwe culture at Lac Seul at the time that George Kenny wrote this book, and they colour every word of this translation. One interesting thing that occurred to me while translating this book was the use of the grammatical “fourth person.” In Anishinaabemowin and in English, we have the first person (I or me), second person (you), and third person (he/she/it). In Anisihinaabemowin there is also the fourth person, that is, the one who is in relation to the third person. John is third person. John’s brother is the fourth person, grammatically speaking. Because the short stories are about the third person, everyone and everything they see is fourth-person status. Sometimes even the weather is described in the third person’s eyes. The sun was not shining intensely in an objective fashion. The sun was shining intensely for John. This was very interesting to note, and the language student will note it too. It is my hope that the Anishinaabe language student or reader will enjoy reading this book of short stories and poems. There are not many books of length—fiction or non-fiction—that are written in Anishinaabemowin. It will help enhance a student’s vocabulary and grasp of the Anishinaabemowin grammar. Stories and poetry in the Native language play a particularly important role in language revitalization, as they bring the language to life. —Patricia M. Ningewance

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Rain Dance as a modern indian i perform my rain dance when the meteorology charts reveal rains to come for the crest-gleaming teeth of the green-backed tourists i chant my songs like a rolling stone i clap my hands like a backfiring engine i wriggle my hips like a belly dancer i flash my feet like a snake touching fool as i dance — rain dance dancing by 100-watt bulb or prancing by moonlight or lancing by firebug glow i dance my act into the security of pocketbooks of the enriching americans and that weather forecaster better be dammed right!

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Gimiwanishimowin Noongom e-anishinaabewiyaan nin-gimiwanishim Aanawi e-waabandamaan ekidoomagak e-biijibiisaag ni-miimitawaag gaa-waasaabideziwaad wezhooniyaamiwaad wemitigoozhiwag ni-nagamonan ni-nagamonan daabishkoo gaa-bimi-ditibaaboozod asin nim-bapasininjiiw daabishkoo gaa-bakitetaagog maajiishkaachigan ni-wewebizhiiganeshim daabishkoo gaa-giichikwanayeshimod ikwe ni-waawaasizideshim daabishkoo gaa-zaaminaad ginebigoon gegiibaadizid. e-niimiyaan — e-gimiwanishimoyaan e-niimiyaan waasigani-waasikwaneg e-naaniimibani’oyaan e-giizhigaateg gemaa e-bazhiba’igeyaan waasikwanemanijooshag e-waawaasikwanesewaad ni-niimitawaag ni-niimikaaz ni-niimishitoo ji-onji-zhooniyaakeyaan igi wezhooniyaamiwaad gichi-mookomaanag amii ezhi-bagosendamaan awe gaa-ikidod ge-izhiwebaninig ji-debwed wii-gimiwan gaa-ikidod

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Rubbie at Central Park In the green beauty of Central Park between Edmonton and Carlton streets, every night, some of Winnipeg’s thirty thousand Indians find acceptance with a 10 fl. oz. bottle of rubbing alcohol. Rubbie, while eventually to burn a hole through the drinker’s intestines even when diluted with Fanta or Coca-Cola, is as good as any brand of whisky to start forgetting. The personnel man at the Bay or any other employment office took a look at clothes one didn’t have four bits to wash with or maybe, just said to himself, oh oh, a wino, look at his scarred face and said a sorry he didn’t mean.

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Minikweshk imaa Central Park E-minobagaak imaa Central Paak naawiya’iing Edmonton miikana gaye Carlton miikana amii imaa endaso-dibik endazhi-minikwaadamowaad nisimidana daswaak anishinaabeg midaaso-dibaabiishkoojinanens ishkodewaabo, gaa-inwaadesinog ji-minikwaadeg. Awe dash minikweshk ezhi-maajii-waniiked gaa-wii-gagwe-waniiked bekish dash e-bagwaneyaakizang onagizhiin aanawi e-apaagamindang zhiiwaabo iwe o-minikwewin. Awe dash maamoochigewinini gaye awenen igo gaa-anokii’iwed o-waabandaan e-wiinikwanayenid ini minikweshkan gaawiin aaniish o-zhooniyaamisii ji-giziibiiga’ang o-gigishkiganan oh oh dash ikido e-waabamaad e-zhiingwenid ini minikweshkan e-goopaadenimaakaazod.

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Indians Don’t Cry Indians don’t cry. That’s bullshit, Frank Littledeer cursed as tears streamed down his broad, weather-scarred face. His children had just flown off in a Hooker Airways Beaver. They were bound for Pelican Lake Residential School near Sioux Lookout, some eighty miles away. Frank, fifty-six in October and a guide for South Bay Lodge, stood and watched. The dot that was the aircraft grew even smaller over the eastern tree line. Rain fell softly from the low, grey clouds on to his small wiry frame. A north wind stirred the mud-coloured water into waves that nudged his floating wooden dock. Frank curled his left hand into a fist. Turning to his cabin, he wiped the rain and tears off his cheeks with his right palm. Every September, it came to this — heartache — as his only son and three daughters went off to the white man’s schools. He had tried to find a job in Sioux Lookout before. He had tried so that he and his wife, Mary, could be near the Department of Indian Affairs school where their children, as many others, were boarded. If he had been successful in finding and keeping employment, their children could have lived with them and still gone to public schools in the town. The past three autumns, his attempts had ended in failure. Two autumns ago, both he and Mary returned, but last September he came back to South Bay on the Red Lake highway alone.

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Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg Gaawiin iindog mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg. Gaawiin debwe iwe, inendam Frank Littledeer e-mamawid. Apane noongom gii-maajaawa’ oniijaanisa’ Hooker Airways Beaver gaa-bimisemaganinig e-gii-booziwaad. Apane Zhashagiwi-baawitigong gikino’amaadiiwigamigong izhaawa’ jiigiWaaninaawagaang ningojigo nishwaasomidana daso-diba’akaan. Frank, amii ji-naanimidana-shi-ningodwaaso-bibooned, binaakwegiizis izhisenig. Zhaawano-waaninigamaang Gwaashkwebijigewigamigong dash dazhi-bima’oozhiwe gii-niibininig. Niibawi imaa e-ganawaabid. Apane biinish angonaagwan iwe gaa-bimisemagak, apane wedi waabanong inake. Ani-maajibiisaan indigo memindage gashkiidibikidabasaanakwan izhinaagwan. Giiwedinong ondaaniman. Bangii wewebaa’ogon iwe naanaakwaandawaan imaa e-niibawid. Aaniish gaye naangani awe inini. Gashkaakoninjiitaa Frank. Apane gwekigaabawi e-wii-gopiid endaad e-wii-ina’adood, bekish gaasiingwe’idizo e-mawid gaye e-gimiwaninig. Endaso-manoomini-giizis, amii bizhishig e-moo’igod gii-maajaanid oniijaanisa’ — bezhig ogozisan, nisin dash odaanisa’. Apane wedi wemitigoozhii-gikino’amaadiiwigamigong e-izhaanid. Odaana-giigagwe-mikaanaaban anokiiwin imaa Waaninaawagaang. Gaawiin dash. Besho imaa gikino’amaadiiwigamigong eyaanid oniijaanisiwaa’ giiinendamooban ji-daawaad wiin zhigo owiiwan Mary gaa-izhinikaazonid. Giishpin gashkitoopan ji-mikang anokiiwin, oodenaang o-daa-giiganawenimaa’ wiin oniijaanisa’. Oodenaang imaa daa-gii-dazhigikino’amawaawa’ oniijaanisa’. Aazha dash niswaa endaso-dagwaagon gii-aanawewizi e-gagwemikang anokiiwin. Awasi-dagwaagong wiin Mary dash gii-bigiiwebaniig.

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As Frank put two pieces of dry wood into the stove, making a fresh pot of tea, he thought about the reasons for his failure to keep his family together. There were many, and each was part of the other, somehow. Jobs were hard to come by, especially with his knowing only simple words of English. It had seemed impossible to find a suitable house, one large enough for their family, in or near Sioux Lookout. Work as a labourer often put him into the company of men, mostly white, who seemed to despise Indians and were not afraid to ridicule him openly. All these hardships Frank knew he could have handled if it hadn’t been for yet another. Frank liked the taste of liquor as well as most men. He enjoyed a Black Label, especially after a day’s work. He even had a good drunk once in a while. But it was a now familiar hurt that sprang up in his chest as he remembered: his wife had developed an overwhelming thirst for whisky. Sitting alone at his handmade spruce table, Frank felt misery spread upwards from his heart. Last September, he often came back to their small rented house on the west side of town to find his wife in a drunken stupor or gone from the house altogether. Against his will, fresh tears came to his eyes as he recalled those evenings he would go uptown looking in the various bars for Mary. He would find her, sitting with men, white or Indian, who had called him names as he tried to convince his wife to come home. It had been worth the trouble in one way. He and Mary had been able to visit their children on weekends. He thought back to his pride on seeing his son’s pictures on the achievement display board in the school. Young Gordy Littledeer had come first in class, five out of his seven previous grades. Their daughters too had done well in their schooling. Frank smashed his knotted fist onto the table as he remembered. He had come home a day early from the section gang, the CN crew-boss having made a mistake in timetabling. A deep sense of anger and loss welled up anew in his breast as his mind still recoiled. He had entered the house, the silence broken by drunken voices from the bedroom. He experienced complete shock on walking through the doorway, seeing

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Dagwaagong dash wiin, wiin eta gii-izhi-giiwe imaa Zhaawanowaaninaawagaang miikanaang. Bagidinise Frank. Niizhwaatig odatoonan imaa boodawaanaabikong. Diiwaabooke. Onaanaagadawendaan wegonen wenji-gashkitoosig ji-mikang anokiiwiin. Baatiinwayag gaa-onji-gashkitoosig ji-anokiid oodenaang. Zanagan. Debwe zanagan ji-mikigaadeg anokiiwin gaawiin aapiji gii-nitaazhaaganaashiimosig awiya. Bangii eta ikidowinan ogikendaanan. Zanagan gaye ji-mikigaadeg waakaa’igan gakina imaa ji-debishkinewaad. Giishpin mikang anokiiwin oodenaang, iwe dinokaan anokiiwin amii imaa gewiinawaa wemitigoozhiwag e-anokiiwaad. Obaapanenimaawaan dash anishinaaben, gaawiin gaye omanaazomaasiwaawaan. Bizaanigo daa-gii-gagwe-anokii oodenaang. Ogikendaan dash maawach gaa-zanagi’igod. Frank o-gii-baataa-minopidaan zhingobiiwaabo, daabishkoo sago niibiwa ininiwag. O-gii-minwendaan ako Black Label gaa-izhinikaadenig zhingobiiwaabo e-gwaakwaabandang gii-ishkwaa-anokiid ako. Ningoding ako gaye bizaanigo gii-giiwashkwebii. Owiiwan dash wiin ishkodewaabo gaa-gashkitoosig ji-boonitood. E-nanamadabid imaa odadoopowining gaa-gii-ozhitoopan, Frank omikwendaan iweni. Dagwaagong o-gii-ayaanaawaaban waakaa’igan jiigi-oodena. E-bigiiwed ako o-gii-mikawaan owiiwan wiinge e-giiwashkwebiinid endaawaad. Ningoding gaye gaawiin imaa ayaasiiwan. Gii-maajaawan iinzan. Amii ezhi-moo’igod e-mikwendang iwe apii. Apane iinzan oodenaang ndawaa e-gii-babaa-nanaandonewaad owiiwan, ziiginigewigamigong e-baabiindiged. Amii ko wedi gaa-mikawaad, e-danaakizigenid, ininiwa’ e-wiidabimaad. Anishinaabe’ gaye wemichigoozhiwa’. Noojigo ko odigoo’ gegapii gii-gashki’aad ji-bigiiwenid owiiwan. Amii eta gaa-onizhishing gii-daawaad jiigi-oodena, e-giigashkitoowaad ji-ando-mawadisaawaad oniijaanisiwaa’ gikino’amaadiiwigamigong gii-maadinawegiizhiganinig, gaye giianama’egiizhiganinig. Wiinge ko e-gii-gichi-inenimaad ogozisan omazinaakizonini gii-agwa’igaadenig, wiin iinzan e-niigaanishkaad ogikendaazowinini,. Aazha iinzan naanwaa nitamishkaa Gordie

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Mary naked and moaning, a white man labouring between her brown thighs, on their bed. Frank had pulled the man off, and in a heated rage pummelled him to the floor, and then shoved and kicked him out of the house. He had then beaten his wife, both of them crying in hurt, until he had been too tired to continue. Mary had left him two days after. To hell with her. At the time, he had meant the words; now he wished she were here. For now, it was another September. Now, more than before, he was alone. The children, his lively and stubborn offspring, were gone. Gone with their folk music that had filled every corner of his one-room cabin. Now he missed their laughter and their talks, talks that would often continue into the post-midnight hours. Frank took a sip of Salada tea and began to check his casting rod and reel, pulling out the nylon line. Tomorrow would come, another day to guide, to live on. In spite of the dry, racking sob that was rising in his throat, a grim smile played on Frank’s lips as he remembered how they had ridiculed him — Indians don’t cry. That’s a goddamn lie.

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Littledeer, niizhwaaso-biboon dash e-gikino’amawind. Odaanisa’ gaye minochigewa’ e-gikino’amawindwaa. Wenji-bakite’ang adoopowin Frank e-mikwendang aabiding e-bigiiwepan endaad wiiba. Gaawiin apiichi-wiiba daa-gii-bigiiwesii. Gii-wanaginjige dash ishkode-odaabaan ogimaa, gaa-gii-onjibigiiwed wiiba Frank. E-biindiged endaad, onoondawaa’ awiya’ e-giiwashkwebiinid nibewigamigong e-danwewidamonid. Gii-gichigoshkwendam e-waabamaad imaa owiiwan e-waasaakonawenid e-dazhinaanoondaagozid wemichigoozhiwan e-dazhi-manigod onibewiniwaang. Amii go giiyaabi ezhi-nishkaadizid Frank e-mikwendang iwe apii. O-gii-manibinaan ini wemichigoozhiwan. Imaa michisag o-giidanaganaamaan, biinish e-gii-ani-zaagiji-basijiishkawaad. Amii dash miinawaa gii-ani-miigaanaad owiiwan, minji-niizh igo e-mawiwaad, biinish gii-aanishendang ji-miigaanaad owiiwan. Niizhogon e-izhisenig o-gii-naganigoon owiiwan. Naabadizid, inendam. Amii gaa-inendang iwe apii. Noongom dash wiinge zhagadendam e-michi-bezhigoobid imaa endaad. Aapiji omedasinaa’ oniijaanisa’ e-gii-maajaanid. Wiinge ko e-giinaanoondaagoziwaad bizhishig, gaye gaa-gitoochigewaad nagamonan e-gii-noondaagwaninig gabe-giizhig. Wiinge omedasinaa’ memindage noongom. Ogwaabandaan odiim. Ndawaa ogwaashkwebijiganaak ogidinaan imaa gaa-izhi-nitaa-atood. Ndawaa naa ji-gii-ozhiitaad, aaniish naa waabang miinawaa da-bima’oozhiwe. Gaawiin nin-daa-mawisii, inendam. Ndawaa gagwe-zhawiingweni ji-gagwe-jiikimanji’oshitood. Amii dash enendang, gaawiin iindog mawisiiwag anishinaabeg. Ndawaa zhawiingweni getinaam.

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Poor J.W. a Sandy Lake Cree, postcard photographic plate of the city implanted on his brain, he, trying to cross Yonge St. at 5 p.m. was collared by a Jehovah’s Witness — Poor J.W., he didn’t know; that lost-looking Cree is a devil-castingout-preacher, a brother of Jesus. Who’ll save who? My two bits on the Sandy Lake Cree, dumb in the ways of the city, but fluent in all tongues when it comes to the Lord and the Bible. Poor J.W.

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J.W.ish Nengawi-zaaga’iganiing onjii Anishinaabe Gaa-maajinizha’igaadeg dinookaan mazinaakizon e-mazinisenig onaanaagadawenjiganing. E-gagwe-aazhawishkaad miikanaang gichi-oodenaang gibitinigoon Jehovah’s Witness, megwaa dash e-naano-diba’iganeyaak e-ishkwaa-naawakweg. Awe J. W. gaawiin o-gikendaziin Ini anishinaaben ingwana anama’ewaadiziwan, daabishkoo Jesus ini wiijikiweyan inendaagoziwan. Awenen naa ge-zhaagoozitaagozipan? Anishinaabe niin nin-daa-inendam ji-zhaagoozitawaapan ini wemichigoozhiwan, wiin aaniish niibiwa dinookaanan izhigiizhwewinan o-gikendaanan. Awe J. W. goopaadendaagozi.

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Lost Friendship Marianne Reany sat at her desk, looking out the window on a Sunday afternoon. Through the panes, she saw flakes of snow swirling down. This would be her first winter in Red Lake. The coming of fall in this small northwestern Ontario town had not seemed much different than the autumns she had known on her parents’ Ohio farm. Picking up her pen, she tried to think of words to express to her relatives some of her experiences as a secretary for the Gospel Light Mission. She also wanted to write to her best friend and tell her of a particular friendship she was forming. I wonder what Jane will say, Marianne thought, looking at her calendar. October thirtieth. Tomorrow she would see Glen Day. She remembered the director asking her to go talk to the young Indian man who had come into the office a month ago. She had been nervous and unsure of what to say. As it turned out, she hadn’t needed to be afraid. Smiling, she thought of the invitation to a Monday night social that the Pentecostal Indian youth and young adult group were planning to have. She recalled the smirk on Glen’s face as he asked her to come, if she wasn’t afraid of barbarians like him. Once more, Marianne tried to write a letter, but the prospect of going out tomorrow night was too close. She couldn’t concentrate. Putting down her pen, she pushed the chair back and went over to the dresser mirror. She saw long-lashed blue eyes, a small nose with a sprinkle of freckles on its level bridge, and an almost too wide mouth on a palecomplexioned face. Her slim arms pushed the escaping curls back under the white nylon covering that held her auburn hair in a bun. The snowflakes continued to spiral down. They melted upon landing on the asphalt surface of Howey Street. She could see westward toward the OPP station, the Hobby Shop, and the Red Lake Inn. The Red Lake Inn! In this morning’s devotions, the director of the Mission had asked in prayer that the bar room be closed by the power of God. In spirit, 14

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Gaa-waniseg Minowiijiindiwin Marianne Reany izhinikaazo awe ikwe gaa-namadabid odoozhibii’igeadoopowining e-anama’egiizhigak e-ishkwaa-naawakweg. Zaagidaabi. Aazha iinzan gii-maadaagonagise. Amii enaak omaa ji-ayaad bibooninig Onamani-zaaga’iganiing. Amii sa wiin igo naasaab enendaagwak gii-dagwaagig daabishkoo wedi gaa-onjiid zhaawanong Gichi-mookomaanakiing Ohio. Awakaanigamig o-gii-ayaanaawaa’ oniigi’igoo’. Odakonaan odoozhibii’iganaakoon e-wii-ozhibii’amawaad odinawemaagana’ ji-wiindamawaad aaniin enendaagwaninig e-anokiid omaa giiwedinong, e-ozhibii’igewikwewid imaa Gospel Light Mission. Memindage bezhig ini owiijikwen wii-ozhibii’amawaan ji-waawiindamawaad gaa-izhi-oshki-wiijiiwaaganid omaa. Amanj geikidogwen Jane, inendam Marianne. Bekish o-ganawaabandaan ogiizisoomazina’igan. Waabang nisimidana da-inangizo binaakwe-giizis. Amii ji-waabamaad Glen Day-an. Odoogimaaman o-gii-gagwejimigoobaniin ji-awigaganoonaad oshkiniigiwan gaa-gii-bi-biindigenipan aabiding odoozhibii’igewigamigowaang, aazha ango-giizis odaanaang. Giizhaagwenimooban dash Marianne. Aan ge-ikidowaan, e-inendang. Anishaa dash gii-zhaagwenimo. Zhawiingweni gii-gikendang e-andomind gaa-wii-izhi-maawaji’idiwaad oshki’ayaag — igi anama’ewigamigong gaa-izhi-dibendaagoziwaad gaye igi bikish gaa-ayaawaad. Giizhawiingweniiban Glen gii-andomigod. “Gi-ga-gosaag na jiwiidabimadwaa anishinaabeg?” o-gii-igoobaniin. Aana-gagwe-ozhibii’ige Marianne. Ozaam dash gwenawi-inaajimo. Ndawaa waabamoning inaabi. Ganawaabandizo. Waabijaabi. Bangii gaye baapaatewiingwe. Owaabandaan e-agaasiniked, e-zagakaabiiginang o-wiinizisan. Miskwaanikwe. Giiyaabi zoogipon. Aana-ningizo awe goon gii-bangishing imaa asiniikaaning. Howey Street izhinikaade iwe miikana agwajiing. Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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Marianne agreed that bars and vending places of alcohol should be closed so that the Indian people would have one less obstacle to overcome on the road to salvation. But she wondered if the closing of such places would do much good, as she thought back to a conversation she had had with Glen one day, two weeks ago. She had been coming back from Wednesday night prayer meeting with two other female workers at the Mission. They had passed the bakery when he had come out and stopped to talk to them and laughingly asked who they were planning to save that night. One of the girls, older but more impulsive than Marianne, had answered that God, not they, was the only power that could save. Joan would likely have continued explaining had not Marianne become aware of the amusement in Glen’s dark eyes. Laying a hand on Joan’s shoulder, she had whispered in her ear that Glen was only kidding. Joan and the other girl had then kept on toward the office, the upstairs of which was used as a residence by single women who worked for the Mission. Marianne had felt slightly uneasy because the director wanted his girls to be in by certain times. But Glen had continued talking, asking her if she had some kind of missionary complex to try to save the poor deprived Indians. He had said this with a trace of light bitterness in his voice, or so she had thought. Marianne admitted she had probably possessed such notions in the beginning. She had tried to explain to Glen that she had come to the realization that the Ojibway people were just trying to adapt to a life different from what they were used to. Glen had replied that there were no easy answers to the social problems that confronted the Native people of Canada. He had apologized for making fun of her, and said he thought the Mission was sincere in its desire to help. They had talked for at least twenty minutes in front of the OPP station when Mr. Donne, the director, had called her, reminding her of the time. She had been embarrassed without fully understanding why and felt an ache as she watched Glen smile and turn away. Marianne rested her palms on the window sill, again looking westward. The sun was struggling to get out from behind the snow-laden clouds. Rays of its light sparkled drifting flakes on their downward flight.

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Ningaabii’anong inake e-inaabid o-waabandaan dakoniwewigamig gaye The Hobby Shop gaa-izhinikaadeg adaawewigamig, gaye Red Lake Inn ziiginigewigamig. Red Lake Inn! Zhebaa anama’ewigamig gaaogimaakandang gii-anama’aad o-gii-izhi-gagwejimaan Gizhemanidoon ji-giba’igaadenig iwe ziiginigewigamig. Amii dash gewiin enendang Marianne ji-gii-giba’igaadegibaniin ini ziiginigewigamigoon gaye aaniindi go ezhi-adaawaadeg minikwewin. Ozaam amii iwe bezhigwan miinawaa gaa-aadaakoshkaagowaad anishinaabeg gii-gagwe-anama’ewaadiziwaad. Zhaagooch dash amii enendang, ganage go debwe daa-minose aana-ayaasinogin ge-dazhi-minikweng. Omikwendaan gaa-giidazhindamowaad niizhodwaate odaanaang wiin zhigo Glen. Bi-giiweban e-gii-maawaji’idiwaapan gii-aabitawiseg, igi gaaanama’ewaadiziwaad; niizhiwa’ owiijikwewa’ gaa-wiidanokiimaad e-bima’adoowaad. Bimosewag dash imaa jiigi-bakwezhiganikewigamig wenji-bi-zaaga’ang awe Glen. Oganoonigowaan ajina, obaapizhiganoonigowaan, e-gagwedwenid awenenan ochaakoni waabimaaji’aawaad iwe gaa-onaagoshig. Bezhig awe oshkiniigikwe, nawach gaa-zaziikizid, bangii go gaa-ozaamidoonid, gii-izhi-nakwetam, wiin awe Gizhemanidoo gaa-bimaaji’iwed, gaawiin wiinawaa. Giiyaabi maawiin daa-gii-gaagiigido awe Joan. O-gii-waabamaan dash Marianne e-zhawiingweninid Glen-an. O-gii-wiindamawaan dash owiijiiwaaganan e-michi-miikinzitaagozinid Glen-an. Amii gaa-izhi-ani-bimosewaad igi ikwewag, e-dagoshinowaad gaa-izhidaawaad. Bangii gegoon inendam Marianne, aaniish bagosenimaawag igi oshkiniigikweg wiiba ji-zagakiiwaad gii-onaagoshininig ningoji gii-izhaawaad. Giiyaabi iinzan gii-ani-gaagiigido awe Glen e-gagwejimigod giishpin anishinaabe’ debwe e-gagwe-bimaaji’aad. Amii aaniish iwe gaa-inendang Marianne ji-gagwe-zhaagoozomaad anishinaabe’ ji-gwekaadizinid. Amii dash gaa-gagwe-wiindamawaad Glen-an e-gikendang Marianne e-nisidotang e-gagwe-mikamowaad ge-ondaadiziwaad, ge-izhi-mino-bimaadiziwaad anishinaabeg oodenaang. Amii dash gaa-izhi-nakwetang Glen gaawiin wendazinoon jimikigaadegiban ge-wiiji’igowaapan gaa-izhi-ositaawisewaad noongom anishinaabeg omaa Canada. Gego gegoon inendangen gii-miikizominaan

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Around four on Sunday afternoon, only an occasional car passed along the main street. Every now and then, a person would walk slowly by in either direction. Marianne sighed, went over to her bed and sat on it, picking up her Bible. It was hard to think on a purely spiritual level about her reasons for being here in this northland. She flipped through pages until she came to Psalms, and almost by habit began to read the 139th, looking for assurance to quieten the unrest of her inner self. Later, Joan’s voice called her for supper and she went downstairs. At service that night Marianne sang the old familiar hymns that soothed the doubts in her. Gazing raptly upward, she didn’t see Glen Day and a couple of his friends enter and slip quietly in the next-to-back row. All through the service she paid strict attention, as her parents had taught her. The subject of the sermon led by the church leader was how to bear witness to the world and still be separate from the world. As she listened, her thoughts lingered on what Glen had asked. How could she or anyone in the Mission be true witnesses for the people who needed the gospel, the down-and-out people, mostly Indians, who walked the streets? How could she witness when she had to stay in the office; how could the men of the Mission, who were often too busy improving the physical buildings of the Mennonite work here in Red Lake? She had found her answer; her purpose was to serve as a secretary. Glen had conceded that her reason was valid, but he had shaken his head in doubt. The speaker was reading, “One of the major fallacies of the modern church member, based on practice down through the ages, is that he or she has been led to believe that witnessing to humanity, collectively and individually, is that such witnessing is the job of and best left to the pastors and leaders of Christ’s churches. This is not so! Every one of you, myself included, is called for, to tell, at every leading of God’s spirit within you, the great and free love of God for anyone who will receive it.” Marianne listened intently. Sooner than it seemed, the service was over and she rose to leave. She saw Glen going out the door and made her own way out, slipping past groups of women in plain wool dresses and men in black suits.

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iinzan o-gii-igoon dash. Debwe go gaa-gagwe-wiiji’iweyeg, iinzan o-giiigoon. Ingoji go niishtana daso-diba’iganens gii-gaagiigidowag imaa jiigi-dakoniwewigamigong, gaa-onji-bi-ganoonigod ini Mr. Donne, odoogimaaman, aazha e-ishpi-dibikaninig. Agaji gaawiin gaye onisidotanziin wegonen wenji-maanendamosed e-waabamaad Glen-an e-zhawiingweninid apane dash e-anima’adoonid. Noongom dash e-niibawid imaa biindig, e-ganawaabandang e-zoogiponinig, ningaabii’anong inake inaabi Marianne. Gagwe-zaagaate; nindigo memindage gii-gooniwanoon ini wakwiin izhinaagwan. Waaside iwe goon e-bimaagonagised. Ngojigo niiwi-diba’iganeyaa e-ishkwaanaawaakweg e-anama’egiizhigak. Gaawiin aapiji minjibizosiiwag odaabaanensag imaa miikanaang. Ningoding eta babimose awiya, ngoji e-izhaad. Aanzanaamo Marianne, apane imaa onibewining izhaa. Odoodaapinaan odanama’e-mazina’igan. Ozanagendaan jinaanaagadawendang wegonen omaa gaa-onji-biizhaad, giiwedinong. Obaapaakiiginaan o-mazina’igan baamaa Psalms gii-mikang. Omikaan iwe gaa-wii-agindang 139 gaa-izhibii’igaadenig. Amii ko iweni gaanitaa-na’endamo’igod giishpin gii-ojaanimendang. Miinawaa dash onoondawaan Joan-an e-andomigod ji-bi-wiisinid. Apane niisaandawe Marianne. E-onaagoshig, e-nagamowaad, amii ezhi-na’endang Marianne, giinagamod ini anama’e-nagamonan. Ishpiming e-ondamaabid gaawiin o-gii-waabamaasiin Glen Day-an gii-biindigenid, owiijiiwaagana’ gii-wiidabimaad imaa odaanaang inake. Gabe-naagosh gii-bizindam e-gaagiigidonaaniwaninig, amii aaniish gaa-izhi-gikino’amaagopan oniigi’igoo’. Amii owe gaa-dazhindang awe gaa-gagiikwed - ji-gagwewiiji’adwaa gaa-gidimaagisewaad awiyag omaa akiing, bekish dash bikish ji-ayaayin, gaawiin wiin ozaam ji-wiijiiwadwaa igi gaa-gagwewiiji’adwaa. E-bizindang iweni, o-maajii-naanaagadawenimaan ini Glen-an, gaa-gii-izhi-gagwejimigod. Aaniin ge-gii-izhi-wiiji’aawaad ini maawach gaa-gidimaagisenid, igi anishinaabeg gaa-goopaadiziwaad, gaa-minikwewaad. Aaniin ge-gii-izhi-wiiji’iwepan nawach bizhishig dash imaa ozhibii’igewigamigong gii-namadabid? Gaye igi ininiwa’ gaa-wiidanokiimaad, odoondami-wawezhitoonaawaan waakaa’iganan

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She had gone two blocks when Glen came out of a small coffee shop and started to walk beside her. After a while he spoke. “Well, what’d you think of the sermon tonight?” “It seemed to be close to what we were discussing the last time we talked,” Marianne said, drawing her woollen coat tight at the throat against the crisp night air. The darkness of the October night hung heavy over the electricity-casting lights of street lamps along the way back to her home. “Right about that, and I suppose, if I have a personal creed, about being a Christian, it would be something along that line.” Glen searched for words to express what he meant exactly. “I mean, I can see that you and the rest of the workers each have their specific job, as Christians, to do, and man, that’s what it’s all about. We each have to serve as best we can....” “I’m glad you see it that way, Glen,” she interrupted, “because I don’t think I could explain much about the overall purpose of the Mission.” “I know.” Glen’s tone was apologetic. “It’s just that once in a while, I feel real defensive about being Indian. It’s as if we, as a race, were so poor and so miserable that people try to help us out of pity alone or to make themselves feel great, like good Samaritans or something.” Marianne had no answer to that, but she sensed he wasn’t asking for one. They were now by the Red Lake Inn and the door to the tavern was open. The sound of the heavy beat of music filled the night. They were past the entrance when someone came out and called Glen. He stopped and, after a few steps, so did Marianne. A man, medium height, stocky in build, with uncertain steps came up to Glen and cursed him, using words that made Marianne cringe. With a feeling of horror, Marianne saw the older Indian man push Glen hard. Glen backed away, speaking quietly. The man who had been drinking rushed at him, then sprawled on the still snow-damp street as Glen sidestepped his charge. He spoke to her: “You’d better go to the Mission: I’ll see you tomorrow night.” His voice was calm. “Good night — and Glen — be careful.” He smiled as she walked toward the Mission building. At the door, she looked back. Someone was sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, head down, and someone, she

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gaa-dibendamowaad igi Mennonite anama’ewininiwag Onamanizaaga’iganiing gaa-ayaawaad. Amii gaa-mikangiban ge-inwaazod — jiozhibii’igewikwewid. Amii gaa-inendangiban Glen, zhaagooch dash bangii gii-aanwetam. Gaa-gagiikwed aginjige. “Amii enendang noongom gaa-anama’aad awiya, amii gaa-izhi-gikino’amaagooying ginwesh aazha, amii eta igiwe gagiikwewininiwag e-bagamishkaagowaad ji-wiiji’aawaad awiyan gaamaanzhisenid. Wiinawaa eta, gaawiin giinawind godagiyag. Gaawiin dash iwe debwe izhisesinoon!” “Gakina giinawind, gaye niin, gi-bagamishkaagomin ji-wiiji’angid awiya ji-mikawaad Gizhemanidoon.” Marianne bizindam weweni. Wiiba inendaagwan gaaishkwaakamigak. Apane gewiin ani-zaaga’am. Owaabamaan Glen-an e-ani-zaaga’aminid gewiin. Apane gewiin odani-gabishkawaa’ owiijianama’ewikwewa’. Gaa-izhikwanawewaad igi dinookaanag ikwewag izhikwanawewa’, ginwaabiigagoodewag. Igi dash ininiwag makadewimiziweshkiganewag. Ajina go gii-bimose agwajiing miikanaang oodenaang gii-waabamaad Glen-an made-zaaga’amoon wiisiniiwigamigong. Owaabamigoon. O-biwiijiiwigoon e-bimosed. Oganoonigoon, “Aan dash giin gaa-initawad gaa-gii-gaagiigidod?” “Amii sa go gegaa bezhigwan iwe gaa-gii-dazhindamang ishkwaawaach gii-gaagiigidoying,” ikido Marianne. Gegaadawi giikaji, onana’ibidoon obiinzikawaagan ji-giizhoogwandashkwed. Aazha aaniish binaakwe-giizis bimangizo, ani-dakaayaa gii-dibikag. Memindage gashkiidibikinaagwan imaa miikanaang, aanawi dash e-waasikwanegin ini waasikwanenjiganan gaa-agoodegin miikanaang. “Eya,” ikido Glen, “giishpin dash geniin anama’ewaadizi inenindizowaan, amii iwe bezhigwan geniin ge-inendamaambaan gaa-giiikidod gidoogimaamiwaa.” Bekish naanaagadawendam e-gagwe-mikang mayaa gaa-wii-ikidod. “Amii ezhi-nisidotamaan gakina giinawaa gidayaam ge-inanokiiyeg, amii maawiin maawach iwe menosegwen, gakina jigagwe-izhichigeying gaa-izhi-gashkitooying ji-izhichigeying, ji-izhiwiiji’iweying...”

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thought it was Glen, was kneeling at his side. Oh, Glen, please be careful, she said silently, going inside. Monday morning rang in with her alarm clock sounding at seven o’clock. Rising, Marianne slipped into her terry-cloth robe. She went to the bathroom, washed and then went back to her room. Joan came in and poked her in the ribs, and Marianne, laughing, flicked her towel in retaliation. Smiling, Marianne got dressed and sat on her bed, studying from Acts the account of Saul’s conversion. Her mind was not really on that far back a time in history. Tonight, she remembered, was the youth gathering. Tonight she would see Glen, who was the leader of the Christian Indian group of youth and young adults. Remembering last night’s incident brought an ache of concern. She wondered why she thought so much of Glen. If in time he continued to show interest in her, Marianne knew that there would be difficulties. She liked Glen’s intelligence. In time, his tendency to be cynical could be cured by Christ working in him and by a woman’s love. Thinking this way of Glen brought a bitter and sweet feeling through her. But how silly to think of such a thing, she chided herself. And besides, the Mission tended to frown on and discourage any romantic involvement between their single staff and the Native people they worked with. Yet her heart quickened as she knew, tonight she would once again talk to Glen. She went out of her room and started downstairs. As Marianne descended, she smelled the aroma of fried eggs and the brewed air of fresh coffee. She entered the dining room. Sun filtering in through the pale yellow curtains bathed the room in golden light. She absentmindedly noticed the sombre expressions of the people already seated at the table. Folding her hands in her lap, she waited with lowered eyes for Mr. Donne to start devotions. “It’s sad to hear that young Glen Day was killed last night in....” Marianne’s eyes blurred with sudden tears as her soul cried out, “Glen, Oh Glen, Oh Glen...”

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“Ni-minwendaan naasaab gegiin e-inendaman, Glen,” ikido awe ikwe. “Gaawiin nin-daa-gashkitoosiin ji-waawiindamaan mayaa gaa-gagweizhichigemagak iwe Mission gaa-izhinikaadeg.” “Nin-gikendaan,” ikido Glen. Gaawiin wii-gagwe-nishkimaasiin awiyan. “Amii eta enendamaan gii-anishinaabewiyaan, ningoding ako ni-nishkendam gii-anishinaabewiyaan. Daabishkoo wiinge niinawind e-gichi-goopaadiziyaang, amii dash gakina awiya ezhi-gagwe-wiiji’inangid bizhishig. Maagizhaa e-goopaadenimigooyaang, maagizhaa gaye giinawaa igo wii-gagwe-minwendami’idizoyeg awiya e-wiiji’eg.” Marianne gaawiin nakwetanzii. Gaawiin memwaach daa-nakwetanzii inendam. Gaawiin maawiin onandawenimigosiin ji-nakwetang iwe odinendamowin Glen. Aazha imaa agwajiing Red Lake Inn ziiginigewigamigong bi-dagoshinoog. Baakisin iwe ishkwaandem. Wiinge gichi-initaagwan, gitochigewin gaa-bi-debitaagwak. Aazha imaa o-bimigabishkaanaawaa wenji-ganoonigod awiyan Glen. Zhemaak gibichii Glen, amii dash gewiin Marianne. Inini binaagozi. Bidikozi, gegaadawi dash zasaka’aagese e-bimosed. Wiinge o-gichi-inaapinemigoon Glen. Wiinge ogoshkomigoon Marianne, gaawiin aaniish iwe dinookaan izhigiizhwewin onoondanziin. Apane enigok ogaanjiwebinigoon Glen ini ininiwan. Gegoon o-madeinaan Glen, gaawiin onoondawaasiin Marianne. Apane bi-mookiitaage awe gaa-giiwashkwebiid inini. Ezhi-dabaziid Glen, apane aatawaabangishin awe anishinaabe. Bangii imaa goon abi gaa-gii-izhi-bangishing awe inini. Oganoonaan ini ikwewan Glen. “Amii indawaa izhi-giiwen. Waabang gi-ga-waabamin.” Gaawiin nishkitaagozisii. “Haaw sa, mino-dibikishinin, Glen. Ayaangwaamizin.” Michizhawiingweni Glen e-anima’adoonid ini ikwewan. Apii dash giidagoshing imaa gaa-izhidaad Marianne, gii-aabanaabi. Owaabamaan ininiwan made-ajidawikwebiwan jiigikana. Bezhig dash miinawaa inini — Glen ganabach — ojijiingwanabi imaa jiigiya’ii. Ayaangwaamizin, Glen, inendam awe ikwe, e-ani-biindiged. E-gizhebaawagak, e-oshki-giizhigak, o-gii-amajimigoon o-diba’igiiziswaanan Marianne gii-niizhwaaso-diba’iganeyaanig. Apane imaa miiziiwigamigong izhaa, ji-giziibiigiid. Apane dash miinawaa gaa-

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izhi-nibaad izhaa. Bi-zaaga’am bakaan Joan. Omiikinji’igoon wiijikwen Marianne. O-giiwe-miikinji’aan. Omaajii-baakiiginaan odanama’emazina’igan. Iwe Acts gaa-izhinikaadenig ezhi-baakiiginang. Wiiagindaan gaa-gii-izhi-gweki-bimaadizid Saul. Gaawiin dash wiin iwe ozaam mewinzha wii-izhi-maamikwendanzii Marianne. Ezhi-ganwiiked noongom onaagoshininig itagiin da-maawaji’idiwag oshki’ayaag. Onaagoshininig o-da-waabamaan Glen-an. Wiin aaniish oniigaaniitaan iwe maawaji’idiwin. Omikwendaan gaa-gii-inakamiganinig dibikong. Omigoshkaaji’igon iweni gaa-gii-izhisenig. Amii dash gaye ezhi-naanaagadawendang wegonen wenji-gichi-naanaagadawenimaad ini oshkiniigiwan. Giishpin giiyaabi ani-gaganoonigod bizhishig, amii gegoon ge-izhi-izhisegiban inendam. Ominwendaan gii-gaganoonaad ako. Nitaa-gaganoonidiwag. Nitaa-nishkendam Glen. Maagizhaa anama’ewaadiziwin gaye ikwewan zaagi’igod da-onizhishin inendam. Gaawiin dash ominwendaziinaawaa igi anama’ewininiwag gaa-anokiitawaad ji-zaagi’idiwaad anama’ewining gaaanokiitaagewaad gaye ini gaa-wiiji’aawaad anishinaabe’. Zhaagooch dash giimooji-jiikendam e-gikendang ji-waabamaad owiijiiwaaganan ani-onaagoshininig, ji-gaganoonaad miinawaa. Apane zaaga’am o-nibewigamigong, ani-niisaandawe. Gii-niisaandawed Marianne, ominaandaan awiya iinzan e-giizaasaabikizang waawanoon, gaye gaa-ozhitood gwaapiini. Biindige imaa gaa-dazhi-maamawi-wiisiniwaad. Wiinge minonaagwan e-biindigeyaateg imaa, e-zhaabwaateg gaa-ozaawegakin gibiiga’iganan. Owaabamaa’ imaa gaa-namadabinid owiijiiwaagana’. Obii’aan ji-maajii-anama’aanid Mr. Donne-an. “Maanendaagwan e-noondamaang e-gii-nii’ona’ond iinzan Glen Day dibikong...” Marianne zhemaak gaa-wii-mawid, ochaakong onjitaagwanini ekidoomaganinig, “Ishe, Glen, ishe, Glen...”

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The Bullfrogs Got Theirs (as now I do) As a boy, I would go out with my friends and spear bullfrogs. It didn’t matter if each frog might someday be turned into a prince by some little girl’s magic capable mind, nor did it matter if the bullfrogs had feelings to feel our jackknife-sharpened stakes through their hearts; as boys will do without caring for small animal life, my friends and I would launch our wooden spears, yelling like the warriors we imagined ourselves to be... And as I’m older now, often I see people with word-spears cut me down. It doesn’t matter if someday I might become a prince by the power of some woman’s love, nor does it matter if I have feelings to feel their verbal spears sharply through my heart; as people will act without caring about others, people, even now, spit their wordspears, sneering like the gods they imagine themselves to be. 26

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Gaa-wawiiyadiziwaad Gichi-omagakiig Gichi-omagakiig Gii-wawiiyadiziwag Gii-gwiiwizensiwiyaan, nin-gii-wiijiiwaag ako godag niiji-gwiiwizensag e-ando-bimongidwaa gichi-omagakiig Gaawiin nin-gii-babiziskendaziimin maagizhaa endaso-omagakii maawiin daa-ogimaansiwi daabishkoo gaa-inaajimod wemitigoozhi ezhi-misawendamogwen gaye ikwezens gaawiin gaye nin-gii-naanaagadawendaziimin maagizhaa ji-wiisagendamogwen awe omagakii gii-zhaabonamaang ako gaa-gii-jiiboga’igaadeg mitigoons ode’iwaang; amii aaniish ezhichigewaad gwiiwizensag gegoon e-inendazigwaa gii-nisaawaad egaashiinzhinid bemaadizinid, Niin zhigo niwiijiiwaaganag nin-gichi-baabiibaagimin ako e-bimojigeyaang daabishkoo netaa-andawenjigewaad awiyag e-gii-inenindizowaang... Noongom dash e-gichi-ayaawiyaan, moozhag ni-waabamaag awiyag bizaanigo e-bimozhiwaad odikidowiniwaan e-aabajitoowaad. Gaawiin ngodinoo ningoding ji-ogimaansiwiyaan giishpin zhawenimishid bezhig ikwe ngoding gaawiin gaye ngodinoo giishpin wiisagendamaan zhaabosenigin odikidowiniwaan ninde’ing; amii aaniish ezhichigewaad awiyag bizaanigo ezhichigewaad aana-wiisagendamo’aawaad awiya’, booshke noongom awiya, o-zikwaadaanaawaan odikidowiniwaan, e-dabasenimiwewaad daabishkoo ogimaag inenindizowag wiinawaa dash eta inenimowag.

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On the Shooting of a Beaver Joe Rivers stood in front of an irregular line of spruce. He rubbed his leathermitted hands together. The air was still quite cold. The sun of spring in early April had not yet begun to melt the snows of the winter past, here in this region of northwestern Ontario. Joe’s brown deep-set eyes scanned to his left and right as he faced a hole in the frozen creek surface. Careful not to move too much, he removed the leather covering of his new Olympus OM-1. He wanted to get a photograph of any creature, likely a beaver or a muskrat, which might crawl out of that watery opening. His father, a trapper, had positioned him in this spot so that Joe might be able to shoot any furry animal using this hole to get a look at the above-water surroundings of its habitat. The elder Rivers had left Joe a Winchester 30:30 for this purpose. Joe, who had spent most of his twenty-one years in town going to various schools, had not been too eager to act on his father’s wish. Maybe it was because he never had to depend upon trapping and hunting in order to live, Joe reasoned, consenting nonetheless to follow his father’s instructions. What a contrast, being a bushman compared to life in the town of Dryden. Where did he belong, really, he wondered. If the education counsellor from the Department of Indian Affairs had had his way, Joe, a Grade 12 graduate, should have gone to college and worked at getting some “real education.” Though he had not been an outstanding student, he had the marks to go on. He had decided, however, to work, and he had worked at the Dryden Paper Mill ever since.

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E-baashkizond Amik Joe Rivers niibawi imaa ezhi-badakizonid mina’igoo’. Ozinigowebinaanan oninjiin, e-bisikawaad ominjikaawana’. Giiyaabi gisinaa. Gaamashi ningizosii goon omaa giiwedinong Ontario, aanawi dash aazha e-maadangizod niki-giizis. Giiyaabi biboon. Joe giimooch ayinaabi imaa e-niibawid. Oganawaabandaan bangii imaa e-bagoneyaanig mikomiing ziibiinsing. Nishikaach ozhebibidoon iweni odooshki-mazinaakizigan Olympus OM-1 dinookaan. Ni-wiimazinaakizwaa awenen igo aya’aawish, amik, wazhashk awenen igo ge-bizaagijitaad imaa. Odeden gii-wanii’igewininiiwiwan; o-gii-gikino’amaagoon jiashowinaad amikwan daabishkoo owe ji-doodang, ji-baashkizwaad dash awenenan gaa-bi-zaagijitaanid. Bezhig gichi-aya’aa Rivers gaaizhinikaazod o-gii-nagadamaagobaniin baashkizigan ji-aabajitood ji-nisaad amikwan. Oodenaang ako gii-dadazhiike Joe e-gii-izhaad gikino’amaadiiwigamigong, noongom dash e-niishtana-shi-bezhigobibooned. Gaawiin aapiji gii-inendazii Joe ji-nisaad amikwan. Maagizhaa aaniish gaawiin memwaach ji-apenimod ji-amwaad amikwan, jiondaadizid iwe inakeya’ii. Amii gaa-inendang Joe. Giiyaabi dash wiin obiminizha’aan bangii gaa-gii-izhi-gikino’amaagod odeden Joe. Epiichi-bakaan izhi-bimaadiziyaan, inendam Joe. Inashke omaa oodenaang Dryden e-ayaayaan. Gaawiin zezig ge-izhi-bimaadiziyaambaan gaa-gii-izhi-ombigi’igoowaan ji-izhi-bimaadiziyaan. Aandi ezhidibendaagoziyaan? inendam Joe. Giishpin zhaagoozitaagozipan awe gaa-inanokiid gikino’amaadiiwigamigong ji-maamiinomaad gikino’amawaagana’ aazha Joe daa-gii-izhaa gichi-oodenaang ji-maajitood nawach jiishpi-gikino’amawind. Aaniish aazha midaashi-niizhin gii-akoshkaa gikino’amaadiiwigamigong. Bizaanigo daa-gii-ani-zhaaboshkaa.

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Joe shook a lock of hair out of his eyes. He began to feel his leatherbooted feet getting cramped as well as cold. Maybe living in town had its advantage, he thought ruefully, as he shifted his hundred and seventy pounds; then again, it was really something out here. He took his eyes away from the watery hole and gazed around. To his left, the snowy shoreline could not totally conceal golden strands of bulrushes, nor hide the broken pieces of aged trees lying down in natural death. Across the frozen stream a wall of balsam, cedar, and birch trees stood in uniform — nature’s vanguard, he thought. To his right, the curve of shoreline ended at a shrub-tipped point. Beyond it lay the wide expanse of Moose Lake, across which he and his father had come on snowshoes. Squinting, he looked up at the sun, a round saucer coloured bright yellow in the empty blue sky. The breeze rippled the water of the opening, making Joe’s heart seem to bob up to his throat; but as no furry animal appeared, he slowly exhaled and found that he was relaxing the muscles of his body. Come on, you dumb beaver, he thought, and then smiled at the idea of a beaver hurrying out to be shot. His legs sore from standing, Joe sat back on his haunches as he thought of where he was. He was by a small stream, deep in a forest somewhere to the northwest of Dryden, Ontario. Town life had gotten to be too much for him. Joe had gone to the foreman in the finishing room of the plant and had asked for a leave of absence for a couple of months. His boss, he first thought, would be disgusted, but instead had broken into a grin and said, go ahead, but come back if you still want to work. He seemed to understand this need that Joe, and others before him, had had. Joe began to feel a sense of freedom he had never experienced before. For three years, he had visited his father along the shores at Moose Lake. On his visits, during winter weekends, he had used a friend’s SkiDoo, roaring up the forty miles or so, on old logging trails. His father, a small and tough Indian, had never ceased to fish, trap, and hunt as so many of the men from the reserve had done. Joe recalled those days and nights of his weekends off when he and his father would drink tea brewed in a cast iron pot, munch on fried bannock, and talk in the comfort of the well-insulated log cabin. Measuring no more than eight by twelve, the cabin was warmed by the heat of an old oil drum stove. Ah, those were the days, he thought, his chest aching with the memory of his father. On those

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Gii-inendam dash ji-anokiid. Amii dash imaa mazina’iiginokewigamigong Dryden gaa-izhi-mikang anokiiwin. Amii dash giiyaabi imaa eyaad. Gegaa bizini e-inaabiigisenig owiinizis oshkiinzhigong. Aazha anigiikajizidewaji. Zhaagooch ngoding minwendaagwan oodenaang giiizhidaang inendam Joe. Ngoji ajina gii-inaabise, e-ayinaabid miziwe. Nabane imaa, basegaanashkoon badakidewan imaa. Miinawaa gaa-gii-gawaashiwaapan mitigoog mewinzha bimishinoog. Agaaming imaa ziibiinsing, badakizowag zhingobaandagoog, giishkaatigoog, wiigwaasaatigoog, daabishkoo e-ashawaabiwaad. Miinawaa bakaan e-inaabid, neyaashiiwan imaa, gaa-dabasakiigin eta gitigaanan owaabandaanan, gaawiin mitigoog. Wedi dash agamiya’ii Moonzo-zaaga’igan owaabandaan. Amii ko imaa gaa-dazhi-aagimisewaad wiin odeden dash. Wiinge gichi-gizhaateni. Wiinge e-mizhakwak. Bangii niningibiise imaa gaa-izhi-akamowaad amikwan. Bangii gaaojaanimendamosed Joe. Gaawiin dash naagozisii awe amik. Nekaach bagidanaamo. Daga sa naa, amikosh, biizhaan! inendam. Amii dash ezhi-wii-baapid, gaawiin maninaak daa-bi-gizhiiyaadagesii amik jiandawendang ji-baashkizond. Aazha ishkigaabawi. Indawaa onabi imaa. Ayinaabi. Jiigi-ziibiins ayaa, waasa noopimiing ingojigo giiwedinong ningaabii’anong inake imaa Dryden, Ontario. O-gii-ishkendaan e-ayaad oodenaang. O-gii-gagwejimaan dash odoogimaaman ji-bagidinigod niizho-giizis. Nin-ga-nishkimaa nindoogimaam gii-inendam. Gaawiin dash. Gii-gichi-zhawiingweni awe wemitigoozhi. Bizaanigo, o-gii-igoon. Inendaman dash, bizaanigo bi-giiwekan ji-anokiiyin omaa, o-gii-igoon. Daabishkoo enisidotang gaa-inendang Joe, gii-izhise. Wiinge giiminwendam Joe, biniskwe ji-ayaad ajina. Niso-biboon o-gii-mawadisaabaniin odeden imaa Moonzozaaga’iganiing. Gii-biizhaapan ako, gii-bibooninig, owiijiiwaaganan o-gii-awi’igoobaniin iskidoon ji-aabaji’aad. Ingojigo niimidana dasodiba’akaan gii-bimibizo gete-giishka’aakwe-miikanawan e-bimibizod. Odeden gegaadawi aanawi gii-naanganinid, gii-mashkawizii zhaagooch. Gaawiin wiikaa gii-booni-bagidawaasii, gaye gii-wanii’ige bizhishig, e-giiandawenjiged gaye. Amii aaniish gaa-izhichigewaad gakina anishinaabeg ishkoniganing, ji-bimaaji’idizowaad. Omikwendaan Joe, gii-giiwepan ako. Diiminikwewag ako, e-amwaawaad gaye gaa-gii-zaasaabikizonind

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occasions his father had hinted how nice it would be if his only son would come to share his few remaining years. Joe had wanted that. Yet, he had been too dependent upon living in electrically heated homes with their flush toilets, the town’s offerings of a library, picture shows, a coffee and talk in the small Chinese-owned restaurants. Sighing, Joe gazed blindly at the hole, remembering his father’s gladness and smile when Joe told him that he had come to stay with the elder Rivers for at least a couple of months. And so wrapped in his thoughts was he that Joe didn’t see... A brown, furry head with a black nose was peeking from the water, its button eyes sliding around in a circling watch, its rounded ears pointing to the other shore. The head of the beaver was barely above the water level, when with a catch of breath, Joe became aware of it. Apparently satisfied no danger was near, the large rodent put its front paws on the far edge of the ice, and slowly started to climb onto the ice. With a sudden throbbing of his temples, Joe instinctively recovered from his initial surprise; bending swiftly, he exchanged items. For one long drawn-out moment he held his breath, focusing, as the large beaver swung around to face him, droplets of moisture rolling down its glistening fur. Joe seemed to see sudden shock in the beaver’s eyes as he fired, and then a red spurt of liquid come from just above the animal’s right temple, as it fell backward onto the icy surface. Feeling sick instantly, Joe watched, frozen, as the large adult beaver spat out scarlet, its heated breath substance coming into the cold air as steam. Its wide flat tail pounded hard, then gradually stilled as the animal thrashed out its death throes. Bending down, Joe picked up the expensive camera he had so quickly forsaken. I really only wanted a picture, he thought. What does this say about me? The first cloud of the coming spring day seemed to chill the sun as he swung both the camera and the Winchester over one shoulder. With his hands he picked up the now-still creature. One man, he knew, would be pleased with his choice.

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bakwezhiganan, e-gaagiigidowaad imaa endaawaad, e-giizhawatenig. Gii-agaasin iwe waakaa’iganens, ingojigo midaashi-niizhomizid gii-akwaa, nishwaasomizid dash gii-inigokodeyaa. Gete-biiwaabiko-atoobaan dash gii-aabadan e-gii-onji-ozhichigaadeg boodawaanaabikokaan. Wiinge omedasinaan odeden. Maanendam bangii e-mikwenimaad, ambegish bi-waabamishid ningozis ganabach ako e-gii-inendang awe inini. Nawach dash o-gii-gichi-inendaan oodenaang ji-daad Joe, eyaanig waasigan, biindig gaye ji-dazhi-miiziid. Ji-wendaninig obimaadiziwin nawach o-gii-gizhaatawi’igon. Nawach o-gii-gichi-inendaan e-ando-naazikang ako mazina’igan ge-agindang, gaye gaa-mazinaatesenig e-izhaad, e-andogwaapiiminikwed imaa diikewininii-wiisiniiwigamigong. Aanzanaamo Joe, e-ganawaabandang iweni gaa-izhi-bagosenimaad ji-zaagikweninid amikwan. Omikwenimaan odeden gaa-gichi-zhawiingweninid giiwiindamawaapan e-wii-bigiiwed ajina, maagizhaa niizho-giizis. Epiichigichi-naanaagadawendang, gaawiin owaabandaziin ezhisenig imaa gaadazhigaabawid. Wenji-mooshkamod awiya, ozaawadowe, makadewaani dash oshkizh, ayinaabiwan ini. Amik ingwana awe gaa-mooshkamod. Owaabamaan Joe. Apane bi-agwaataa awe amik imaa mikomiing. Ezhi-goshkobani’od Joe, e-gikendang weyiib gegoon ji-doodang. Weyiib omeshkwadoonaanan gaa-dakonangiban. Ikwanaamo, e-waabamaad gichi-amikwan e-gwekibani’onid e-ganawaabamigod. Bangii dipaabaawewan imaa obiiwaying. Zhemaak obaashkizwaan. Gaa-zoswebiigisenig omiskwiim awe amik gii-ishkwaa-baashkizwaad otigwaaning. Apane aazhigijise imaa mikomiing. Zhiishigagowemanji’o Joe e-waabamaad ini amikwan miskwi e-zikwaadaminid jibwaa-nibonid. Aabiding amikwaanow onoondaan e-noondaagwaninig imaa mikomiing. Amii dash gaa-izhi-nibod awe amik. O-gii-odaapinaan iweni gaa-gii-agindenig mazinaakizigan. Niwii-michi-mazinaakizwaaban awe amik, inendam. Wegonen gaa-onjinisag? Aazha bangii biidaanakwan, e-ziigwang. Gegaadawi dakaayaa. Omanibidoon o-mazinaakizigan, gaye obaashkizigan, miinawaa dash ini amikwan. Bezhig wiin igo awiya nin-ga-jiiki’aa e-gii-nisag awe amik, inendam, e-ani-giiwed.

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How He Served every dawn, he brought his woman some portion of his journey. before sunrise, setting match to kindling in a pot-bellied Hudson Bay Co. stove, slipping down to the sandy shore in summer, chopping away overnight ice in the water-hole in winter, fetching liquid for her morning Red Rose tea and then, surrendering the sun of his fingers, he warmed her with touches, tracing his need along the smooth brown skin lines and curves of her body. through the dawns of their lives how he served was by his journey; illustrated many seasons over with the flames of devotion tenderly, he brought his woman.

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Gaa-gii-izhi-Wiidookaazod Endaso-gizhebaawag, o-biidamawaan odikweman gegoon gaa-gii-ondinang gii-ondendid jibwaa-mooka’ang giizis, jibwaa-zaka’ang odishkodem o-gichi-boodawaanaabikong maamoochigeng gaa-gii-ondinang, e-ina’adood wedi gaa-izhi-mitaawangaanig naanew e-niibininig. E-waanizigowebawaad mikomiin imaa gaa-onda’ibiid e-naada’ibiitamawaad ji-ozhitoonid Red Rose dii. amii dash e-bagidinaad gaa-gii-gizhizogod giizisoon oninjiing, e-aanike-giizhoonaad odikweman, e-ani-zaaminaad bekish e-andawenimaad imaa gaa-ozaawazhagenid, gaa-izhigid awe ikwe o-wiiyawing. apii gaa-gii-ako-maajii-wiijiiwidiwaad amii bizhishig e-gii-minwendang e-wiijiiwaad baatiinwaa e-waabanda’aad aaniin minik epiichi-zhawenimaad ini odikweman.

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Welcome The sun reflected yellow on the wings of the airplane as it flashed in a slicing curve over Keesic Bay. Squinting his almost black eyes against the brilliance of the ice-blue sky, Paul West watched the aircraft banking, like a seagull floating on wind currents. Sure hope Rachel comes home on this plane, he thought, as he stepped off the spruce steps of his house. He began to walk unhurriedly toward the landing area, his six-foot frame as straight and lean as a birch sapling. He saw the splash of the floats and heard the bee-like buzzing of the engine as the Cessna taxied toward shore. Paul came up to a couple of his friends who were standing, tattered denim jeans, shirttails hanging out, along the edge of the clay and sand embankment. Who would be on this flight? The same thought would be in the minds of the women and older girls. Paul and his friends stood, quietly joking, in the long grass and greening weeds. Everyone watched, waiting. The rays of sun shimmered as watery reflections on the underside of the aluminum fuselage of the Slate Falls Airways aircraft. Paul could see the pale face of the pilot and saw someone else on the passenger side, but couldn’t recognize that person. “Think Rachel will be on this plane?” One of his friends clapped him on the back. “I don’t know,” was all he could say past the stone that seemed to have formed in his throat. It had been ten months since Rachel Fox had left for her Grade 13 in southern Ontario. She had written regularly to Paul up to Christmas, but since then had not written more than a couple of letters. Paul remembered the many nights of loneliness that had compelled him to go out to gaze at the stars and at times, the wild splendour of the northern lights. Even in the sun-warm moment of the present, moments before Rachel might be home, the helplessness of his situation last winter made 36

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Minwendaagwan E-dagoshineg Gegaa go ozaawinaagwan iwe gaa-bimisemagak e-bi-booniimagak imaa Waaninigamaang. E-inaabid ishpiming wiinge e-mizhakwak e-minogiizhigak, Paul West oganawaabandaan iweni gaa-bimisemagak e-wiibooniimagak. Daabishkoo giiyaashk gaa-biidaashid izhinaagan. Ambegish gabaad imaa Rachel inendam Paul, e-ani-naanzibiid, e-nagadang owaakaa’igan. Maajii-ina’adoo wedi naanzibiing, ge-izhibooniimagak iwe gaa-bimisemagak. Owaabandaan apane e-madebooniimagak nibiing, aazha dash e-biijibidenig. Owiijiiwaa’ aaninda owiijiiwaagana’ Paul, e-naaniibawiwaad imaa jiigew. Gakina bezhigwan izhi’owag, jiimaaniigino-midaasag, babagiwayaanan e-gigishkamowaad. Awegwen ge-gabaagwen noongom? Amii enendamowaad igi ikwewag, oshkiniigikweg gaa-niibawiwaad imaa. Gewiinawaa igi oshkiniigiwag naaniibawiwag imaa, mashkosiing. Gakina imaa inaabiwag, e-bii’owaad ji-waabamaawaad awenenan ge-gabaanid. Gaa-waasideg e-gizhaateg iwe gaa-bimisemagak Slate Falls Airways gaa-izhi-dibendaagwag. Owaabamaan Paul ini bimisewininiwan gaa-waabiingwenid, gaye godag awiyan owaabamaan e-namadabinid imaa niigaan. Gaawiin dash onisidawinawaasiin. “Ganage amii awe Rachel gaa-dagoshing?” odigoon bezhig owiijiiwaaganan, odaanginigoon opikwanaang. “Amanjisa,” eta odinaan. Gaawiin ogashkitoosiin gegoon bakaan jiikidod. Apane midaaso-giizis ishkwaawaach gaa-gii-maajaapan Rachel Fox e-ando-gikino’amawind zhaawanong, ji-debinang Grade 13 gaa-akoshkaag. Bizhishig ako gii-ozhibii’amaadiwag Paul zhigo Rachel. Gii-gichi-anama’egiizhigak dash gaawiin aapiji gii-biijibii’igesii Rachel, maagizhaa niizhwaa eta gii-biijibii’ige. Wiinge ko Paul e-gii-zhagadendang. Ingoding ako giidibikaninig gii-izhaa agwajiing e-ando-ganawaabamaad anangosha’, gaye Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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his heart ach — Rachel, a thousand miles away to the south, and he, a trapper, deep in the midst of forests, frozen lakes and streams. Now, though he managed to keep his face free of any expression, like a stone carving of some ancient demi-god, he could not control his muscles enough to keep his knees from trembling. The shining metal craft was now no more than fifty feet offshore, its whirling prop a silver circle. A couple of the older men stood with the Chief on the small, roughly nailed dock of two-by-fours. Their baggy, worn pants flapped in the wind generated by the propeller. Even after three decades of having airplanes land and take off from the community, there still seemed to be excitement when one actually came. Normally Paul never cared about flights in or out, but at this time in June, he was as eager as anyone else, though no one watching him would be able to tell. Narrowing his eyes, Paul looked at the rear window; yes, Rachel had come home. Images of last summer flashed through Paul’s mind; Rachel’s long black hair swirling as she ran, jumping, down the white sand bank of their island home. Rachel at age seventeen, question marks in her dark brown eyes on their exploration of each other’s bodies, and her high laughter of release and abandon while swimming with the bronze-skinned children of the reserve. And her almost perfect form outlined in the soft glow of a kerosene lamp that night before she went away last August. Now, she was home — this time to stay. Paul had vowed to do all he could to have her stay home. Seeing Rachel’s symmetrical lines finally made Paul give up on his earlier resolution. Anyway, most people on the reserve had long ago taken it for granted that Paul West and Rachel Fox would someday be married. This was what he had really wished would happen for well over two years now. Thus, he jumped onto the sand beach, unheeding, uncaring about the jeers and calls of his friends. “Can’t wait, eh, Paul?” “Go get her, Paul boy!” The sun, a yellow ball in the clear sky, bounced its hot rays off the shiny surface of the pontoons. The pilot, a short, slender man, had by now gotten out on one of the plane’s floats and was paddling the Cessna 180 broadside to the dock. Paul had eyes only for Rachel and he leaned

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gii-waawaatenig. Booshke noongom e-gizhaatenig, jibwaa-dagoshininid Rachel-an, e-mikwendang gaa-gii-gichi-agaawaanaad Rachel-an, e-giimoonzhitood omaanendamowin. Wedi aapiji waasa, midaaswaak dasodiba’akaan epiichaanig gaa-ayaanid Rachel-an zhaawanong, wiin dash imaa ishkoniganing, noopimiing, endazhi-gashkadingin zaaga’iganiin gaye ziibiin. Noongom dash gaawiin waabanda’iwesii aaniin enendang. Daabishkoo ozhikojigan izhinaagwanini owadeng daabishkoo gegoon e-inendanzig. Zhaagooch dash niningigaademanji’o. Aazha beshonaagwan iwe gaabimisemagak ingojigo naanimidana daso-mizid. Gaa-waawiyenaagwak iwe gaa-gizhibaaseg abwiins. Niizhiwag akiwenziwag gaa-wiijigaabawitawaawaad ogimaakaanan imaa naanaakwaandawaaning. Debinaak gii-ozhichigaadeban iwe nabagisagoog e-gii-aabadiziwaapan. Gaa-niningiigaashinid odaasiwaa’ imaa abwiinsing e-ondaasing e-noodinikemagak. Aazha nisimidana daso-biboon omaa baabooniimagan gaa-bimisemagak; giiyaabi dash jiikendaagwan daswaa gii-booniimagak. Gaawiin wiin ako gegoon aapiji inendandazii Paul gii-booniimaganinig. Noongom dash ode’imini-giizis gaa-izhisenig, jiikendam e-niibawid omaa. Gaawiin dash waabanda’iwesii aaniin enendang. Inaabi imaa gaa-izhi-namadabid ako awiya gaa-boozid; eya, Rachel iinzan gaa-bigiiwed. Maamikwendamose Paul niibinong gii-ayaapan omaa Rachel, gaa-izhinaagwaninigin owiinizisan gaa-inaasininigin gii-bimibatood, e-gwaashkwanid imaa gaa-izhi-gichi-ishpadaawangaag gakiiw imaa gaa-izhidaawaad minising. Gii-midaashi-niizhwaaso-bibooneban Rachel niibinong. Gii-gikinjijiinidiwaad ako, omamikwendaan iwe. Gii-nitaagichi-baapid ako gii-wiiji-bagizoomaad abinoojiizha’. Ishkwaawaach gaa-onaagoshininig gii-ayaapan omaa, niibawiiban. Omikwendaan gii-ganawaabamaapan gaa-apiichi-minojiizinid e-nichigigaabawinid imaa, e-waasikwanenig odaanaang imaa gaa-izhi-niibawid. Amii iwe jibwaa-maajaapan niibinong miini-giizis gii-bimangizopan. Amii gaa-inendangiban Paul ji-gagwe-zhaagoozomaad ji-abinid imaa ishkoniganing, ji-maajaasinid. E-waabamaapan dash Rachel-an gaa-izhi-minonaagozinid gaaizhi-boonendangiban Paul ji-gagwe-zhaagoozomaad ji-abinid. Amii

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forward. Rachel’s smile was a tight tug at the corner of her lips, and Paul drew back. A passenger climbed out, a brown-haired young man. The stranger reached out muscular arms for Rachel. Rachel? The world seemed to shrink in sensation and Paul looked, as if from a great distance. Rachel placed one supple brown arm around the young man’s shoulder for support as he held onto her other hand. Raven-black hair shone freely about her uplifted head and as she stepped onto the dock the long, loose blouse was unable to conceal the rounded bulge of her stomach. The water of Lac Seul swished ever so gently upon the golden grains of sand; a white seagull arched lazily by overhead; Paul’s heart sank, as if to the depths of some legendary bottomless lake. Even so, he grinned his crooked smile, and said, “Welcome!”

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sawaach gaa-inendamowaad awiyag imaa ishkoniganing ningoding ji-wiidigendiwaad Paul West Rachel Fox dash. Amii goda gewiin gaaizhi-misawendang ji-izhisenig aazha awashime niizho-biboon. Amii ezhi-niisigwaashkwanid imaa mitaawangaang. Omiikinzomigoo’ owiijiiwaagana’. “Ambegish wiiba na gidinendam, Paul?” “Haaw naanzikaw, Paul!” Wiinge gichi-gizhaate. Wiinge aakwaate. Awe dash bimisewinini aazha wiin gii-gabaa. Imaa ozidikaaning izhi-niibawi, e-biidaakogomod imaa naanaakwaandawaaning ji-bi-gibichiid. Rachelan eta onandawaabamaan Paul. Debwe owaabamaan Rachel-an, zhawiingweninid, bakaan igo izhiingwetaa daabishkoo. Aazha amaniso Paul. Bezhig awiya gabaa, ozaawaanikwe oshkiniigi. Owiiji’aan Rachel-an ji-gabaanid. Rachel? Apane indigo gii-ojise gakina gegoon enamanji’osed Paul, daabishkoo waasa e-onzaabid inamanji’ose. Apane Rachel imaa oshkiniigiin odinimaanganan izhi-aasamii, bekish e-dakonigod e-wiiji’igod ji-gabaad. Gaa-makadewaanikwed Rachel eta naagwanini gii-gabaad. E-dakokiid dash imaa naanaakwaandawaaning wiinge naagwanini e-bikomisaded. Gaa-bagamaashkaag imaa jiigew gaa-izhi-niibawiwaad, gaa-izhiozaawaawangaag mitaawang; giiyaashk gaa-bimaashid ishpiming, gaawaabishkizid giizhigong. Daabishkoo apane waasa anaamiindim gii-izhigozaabiinig ode’ inendam Paul. Giiyaabi dash zhawiingweni e-ganoonaad. “Nin-jiikendam e-dagoshinan!”

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Death Bird I remember a t-shirt clinging hot dawn when the mosquitoes had somehow infiltrated past the screens my father had set up, and looking out the window, toward the pink sneaking approach of another day of August, hearing the trembling cries of the death bird (an Ojibway belief was that anyone hearing the death bird and not ending its life would have a near relative die) and I hearing the raging of my mother’s voice, why didn’t you fix those screens, a storm gathering in her, she whirled like a dragonfly slashing at tormenting insects, (she didn’t hear the death bird or she would have shoved the 12-gauge into my father’s hands and kicked him out the door, not caring, anyone who tried to kill the death bird and failed to do so, would himself die) I remember being too scared of my mother’s anger to tell anyone I heard the death bird that t-shirt clinging hot August dawn and I wish for a second chance, for barely four months later, mother rode off with the death bird.

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Nibowin Bineshiinzh Ni-mikwendaan nimbabagiwayaan e-ashkiigak e-gizhideg gigizheb gii-giimooji-zhaabotaawag iinzan zagimeg aana-gii-agwa’amowaad zagimewayaanan nindede amii dash e-zaagidaabiyaan, gaa-izhi-miskwaanakwag aazha e-biidaabag e-niibing miini-giizis e-bimangizod, e-noondawag gaa-niningitaagozid awe nibowin gaa-biidood bineshiinzh (owe inendamonaaniwan giishpin awiya noondawaad ini gaa-biidoonid nibowin giishpin dash nisaasig ini bineshiinzhan besho gidinawemaagan da-nibo) ni-noondawaa dash nimaamaa e-noondaagozid e-nishkaadizid, wegonen gaa-onji-wawezhitoosiwan ini zagimewayaanan, amii dash e-ani-gaanjigidaazod, daabishkoo jiiweganaabizhiish gaa-maamookiitawaad ini zagime’ gaa-gagwaadagi’iwenid, (gaawiin dash o-gii-noondawaasiin bineshiinzhan nibowin gaa-biidoonid noondawaapan o-daa-gii-miinaan zhiishiib-anwii-baashkizigan nindeden amii dash o-daa-gii-zaagijinizhawaan, gaawiin dash gegoon daa-gii-inendanzii, awenen gaa-gagwenisaad ini bineshiinzhan gaa-bwaanawitood dash, da-nibo ) Nin-ganwiike e-gosag nimaamaa gii-nishkaadizid, ji-wiindamawag e-gii-noondawagiban awe bineshiinzh gaa-biidood nibowin nimbabagiwayaan e-ashkiigak e-gizhideg gigizheb Ambegish miinawaa miinigoowaan bakaan ji-izhiseg gegaa niiwi-giizis e-izhiseg. nimaamaa o-gii-wiidaashimoomaan ini bineshiinzhan gaa-biidoonid nibowin.

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The Drowning July. Hot and dry with shimmering heat waves on the mirror-smooth surface of Scout Lake; a tourist-heavy boat droning across the lake, its swelling wake approaching the western shore. On a dock made of two long logs and nailed-down plywood, Randy James lay, wearing only a bathing suit. Idly, he wondered, maybe that’s Dad. His father, Everet, was a guide for Scout Lake Lodge. In 1967, when commercial fishing had died due to pollution on Lac Seul, the James family had moved west to Scout Lake. His father had found summer work as a guide for tourists from the States who wished to catch pickerel or record-sized northerns. According to the other guides, Everet James did quite well. Randy looked intently at the boat slowly heading towards the narrows that led out to the broad expanse of Lac Seul. That bright orange cap of the man at the rear of the aluminum craft indicated that it was his father who was acting as guide today. That could only mean that one of the other guides must be drunk, Randy thought. He knew that this was his father’s day to stay behind to fill up gas tanks and perform other menial tasks at the waterfront of the camp. Randy sauntered into the one-room log cabin that had been their home since their mother died. His two sisters, both younger than he, were listening to Gordon Lightfoot. “Want to get some pop?” he asked them. “Get it yourself, if you wanna drink pop,” fourteen-year-old Elizabeth retorted. “Do you want a fatter lip than you got?” Randy tried to sound tough. “Cut it out, you guys,” Carol yelled. Though only a year-and-ahalf younger than Randy, she often took the lead in social situations. “Besides,” she added, “I want to mail a letter to my friend in Kenora.”

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Nisaabaawewin Miskomini-giizis bimangizo. Wiinge gizhide. Wiinge gaye gichianwaatin. Daabishkoo waabamon izhinaagwan iwe Scout Zaaga’igan. Gaa-waasideg imaa ogijibiig epiichi-aakwaateg. Noondaagwan e-bimibideg gaa-gizhiibideg jiimaan agaaming. Gaa-biidaashkaag imaa jiigew. Naanaakwaandawaaning gii-ozhichigaadeban. Niizhin gichimitigoog gii-niizhoopizowag, gii-agwa’igaade dash imaa gaa-nabagaak nabagisag. Bimishin imaa Randy James. Bagizoowayaan eta obizikaan. Ganage nindede awe, inendam. Scout Lake Lodge dazhibima’oozhiwewan odeden, Everet gaa-izhinikaazonid. 1967 gii-izhisenig gii-boonichigaadeg gii-adaawaazowaapan giigooyag ozaam e-giimikigaadeg bichibowin imaa nibiing Obizhigokaang. Gii-izhigozi dash imaa Scout Zaaga’iganiing awe inini. Amii imaa gaa-dananokiid awe inini e-babaama’oonaad gichi-mookomaana’ gaa-wii-gaachidinaawaad ogaansa’ gaye gichi-ginoozhe’. Amii gaa-inaawaad godag bima’oozhiwewininiwag, e-nitaa-bima’oozhiwed Everet James. Oganawaabandaan iweni jiimaan wedi gaa-izhi-zaagidawaanig gaa-apidenig. Miskwaanikwaanewan ini gaa-biimaabikinigenid imaa biiwaabiko-jiimaaning. Amii ini odeden. Anokii iinzan noongom gaa-giizhigak; bezhig iinzan godag bima’oozhiwewinini gii-ondamigiiwashkwebiidog, inendam Randy. Amii enwaazopan Everet jimooshka’oojiged imaa gwaashkwebijigewigamigong gaye ji-waawiiji’iwed imaa. Biindige’adoo imaa waakaa’iganensing gaa-izhidaawaad apane gii-ishkwaa-bimaadizinipan omaamaawaan. Niizhiwa’ oshiimenzha’ ikwezensa’, Gordon Lightfoot dash obizindawaawaan. “Gi-daa-naanzikaam na zhiiwaabo?” odinaa’. “Maajaan giin naanzikan wii-minikweyin zhiiwaabo,” odigoon bezhig oshiimenzhan, Elizabeth gaa-izhinikaazonid. Midaashi-niiwi-biboonewan.

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“Take the boat,” Randy said, leering at Elizabeth, who in turn stuck out her tongue. The two girls went out and got into the sixteen-foot strip boat tied to their dock. Carol primed the eighteen H.P. Johnson, then pulled the starting cord three times. The whine of the outboard rose as the girls, long, black hair streaming behind, headed for the Lodge, a quarter mile south along the shore. Randy watched them arrive at the camp, saw them speaking to a man. It looked like the camp owner, Mr. Clyde. Narrowing his eyes against the brightness of the sky, Randy saw it was. It looked like Harry Clyde was filling up some gas tanks. Guess he’s doing what Dad was to have done, Randy thought. He wondered which guide had had too much to drink last night. The camp owner disappeared from view for a couple of minutes, then reappeared, this time in the boat and motor. The boat was slowly going in circles, Harry Clyde holding the steering handle. Maybe he’s trying to adjust the lean or the rich control for gas. Oh well, that’s his problem, Randy grinned, thinking, hey, that water sure looks good. He walked onto the dock and dove off the end. Arching his body caused him to surface almost immediately, and he began to swim. His long arms reaching, legs kicking, he swam some forty feet out into the lake before stopping. Treading, blowing water, he felt glad he had taken those swimming lessons in high school. He looked around—on the shore, their log cabin which they affectionately called their “shack,” stood in front of a tall green poplar. To the east, the other side of the lake seemed far away from his water-level view. Randy put his head down and swam slowly toward shore. He played around for a while—diving to the sandy bottom, surfacing, trying the butterfly; the last effort made him so tired that he had difficulty crawling onto the dock. Panting, he flopped onto the dock. The hot rays of July sun felt so good on his water-cooled flesh. Glancing toward the camp, he startled — the boat was still slowly circling, but this time without anyone in it. He sat up, puzzled. Then he heard faint cries as if someone was crying for help, but he wasn’t sure.

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“Gi-wii-baagidoone na? Deminik dash e-mangidooneyin,” odinaan oshiimenzhan e-gagwe-zegimaad. Gaawiin dash debwe. “Booni’idig!” izhi-biibaagi Carol. Gegaa o-wiiji-daso-biboonemaan ini. Wiin ako gaa-niigaanishkang gegoon imaa. “Ni-wii-izhinizha’aan ozhibii’igan wedi Wazhashkonigamiing eyaad niwiijiiwaagan.” “Jiimaan aabajitoon,” ikido Randy, e-nishkaabamaad Elizabeth-an, gaagiiwe-nishkaabamigod, e-zaagidenaniwetaagod. Apane gii-zaaga’amoog igi ikwezensag e-gii-booziwaad imaa jiimaaning. O-made-maamaagowebinaan iweni ji-onji-oke-maajiibidenig maajiishkaachigan. Gaa-baakwetaagwak iwe maajiishkaachigan, apane e-animimibizowaad wedi gwaashkwebijigewigamigong e-apizowaad. Owaabamaa’ Randy e-bagamibizonid wedi, e-ganoonaawaad ininiwan. Amii ganabach awe gaa-dibendang iweni gwaashkwebijigewigamig, Mr. Clyde. E-zhiiwaabitaad Randy, owaabandaan debwe iinzan awe. Wiin iinzan Harry Clyde gaa-mooshka’oojiged noongom. Amii iwe ge-gii-inanokiipan nindede, inendam Randy. Awegwen awe bima’oozhiwewinini gaa-gii-ozaami-giiwashkwebiid dibikong. Apane ajina made-angonaagozi awe gaa-dibendang. Aazha miinawaa naagozi, noongom dash jiimaaning made-boozi. Made-gagiizhibaabideni ojiimaan, bejibizo. Harry Clyde bimaabikinige. Maagizhaa o-gagweminwaagamitoon owaasigani-bimidem inendam Randy. Wiin iweni obabaamiziwin inendam Randy ezhawiingwenid. Editawe ozaamiminonaagwan iwe nibi, ji-gii-bagizoyaan inendam. Apane naanaakwaandawaaning izhaa, apane ezhi-googiid wedi gaa-izhi-ishpiindimaanig. Gegaa zhemaak gii-mooshkamobani’o. Maajiiyaadage. Bimaadage. Ingojigo niimidana-dasomizid mishawagaam inaadage jibwaa-gibichiid. Ajina imaa bezhigwanong dazhi-ayagwanjin. Onizhishin e-gii-gikino’amaagoowaan ji-nitaawaadageyaan wedi gikino’amaadiiwigamigong, inendam. Ayinaabi — naadagaam badakideni endaawaad “shack” ako gaa-idamowaad. Azaadiig badakizowag imaa. Wedi waabanong inake, nindigo waasawinaagwan wedi naadagaam. Apane maajii-naadagaam inaadage Randy. Ajina gii-wawidamino. Gii-gaagoogii. Miinawaa daabishkoo memengwaa gii-inaadage. O-giiayeko’igon iwe gii-doodang. Indawaa naadagaam inaadage e-akobinidizod imaa naanaakwaandawaaning.

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His sisters were waving their arms, jumping up and down on the dock at the lodge. He could hear them, yelling, “The boss, he’s fallen in...help!” “Bring the stupid boat back!” he shouted, his limbs shaking as he stood up on the wet plywood. Slowly, so slowly. Watching helplessly as his sisters came back, he could hear the tourists on the far docks shouting, hollering. Randy jumped into their boat as it banged against the wooden dock. “Hurry, Randy, oh, hurry, no one can swim over there...” Elizabeth’s lips were quivering, tears in her eyes. It had only been minutes since the commotion started, when Randy steered their craft toward the camp. Men in shorts, their ladies chattering in high shrill voices, were standing, watching, on the four docks. Already two boats were in the area, but no one seemed to be doing anything but look. What the heck is just looking going to do, Randy thought angrily. He slowed the boat, then dove into the depths of the area indicated by his sisters. It was silent, eerie in the lake waters, as Randy sank lower, lower. Weeds, slimy on his skin, and the spectre of bumping into a dead body made him panic and he kicked to the surface. “Nothing...can’t see nothing!” he gasped out, clinging to the side of the boat. “You got to try anyway.” Carol’s voice shook. “Okay, but...” Randy shook his head, took a deep breath and once more sank beneath the surface. It was dark. Everywhere he peered, it was through murky water. On the lake bottom, he could dimly see stones, patches of sand, debris of logs, and weeds. His cheeks puffed, lungs feeling ready to burst, he shot once more to the surface. “It’s no use, can’t find him...,” he managed to gulp. Nevertheless, he went back down three more times, each try convincing him it was too late. Later Randy and his sisters drank their pop on their dock. An OPP constable had come about fifteen minutes after the first cries of alarm. He had organized the men into a thorough search, crisscrossing the area,

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Gichi-babagidanaamo naanaakwaandawaaning gii-apani’od. Editawe ozaami-minwendaagwan e-gizhaasiged giizis gii-ishkwaa-dakizhage’igod nibi. Miinawaa inaabi wedi agaaming. Goshkwendamose. Giiyaabi made-gizhibaabide iwe jiimaan, gaawiin dash eta awiya imaa boozisii. O-gagwe-waabandaan aaniin ezhisenig. Indigo onoondawaan awiya made-biibaaginid, ji-wiiji’ind. Gaawiin dash weweni o-noondawaasiin. Owaabamaa’ oshiimenzha’ e-made-waawaata’igenid, e-gwaakwaashkwaninid imaa naanaakwaandawaaning agaaming. Onoondawaa’ e-biibaaginid, “Ogimaa gii-bakobiise! Wiiji’ishinaam!” “Biidoog sa omaa jiimaan!” izhi-biibaagi, aazha ani-niningigaadeshkaa. Nishikaach, nanishikaach. Michi-ganawaabi e-biijibizonid oshiimenzha’. Onoondawaa’ godag gichi-mookomaana’ e-baabiibaaginid godag naanaakwaandawaaning. Zhemaak gii-biinji-gwaashkwani jiimaaning gii-bagamibidenig. “Weyiib, Randy, ishe hay, weyiib. Gaawiin awiya nitaawaadagesii wedi...” Wiinge zegizi Elizabeth, e-maadademod. Ajina gii-izhiseni iwe gii-maadakamigak, wedi zhemaak apizo Randy gwaashkwebijigewigamigong. Ininiwag naaniibawiwag imaa, giishkimidaasa’ obisikawaawaa’, ikwewag dash wiinge gaashitaagoziwag e-gaagiigidowaad, e-ganawaabiwaad e-niibawiwaad naanaakwaandawaaning. Aazha niizhin jiimaanan imaa gii-bagamibidewan gaawiin dash gegoon awiya izhichigesii. Michiganawaabiwag. Aan ge-onji-gashkitoowaad gegoon ji-izhichigewaad michiganawaabiwaad? inendam Randy. Onishki’igoo’. Apane nishikaach bimibizo, zhemaak googii imaa gaa-izhi-inoo’igenid oshiimenzha’. Wiinge goskwaawaadan anaamiindim, zeginaagwan, apane wedi dabazhiish e-izhi-googiid. Anzaziin ozaamishkaagonan, gaye zegizi jiwaabandang awiya owiiyaw. Ezhi-zegizid, apane indawaa mooshkamo. “Gaawiin gegoon... ni-waabandanziin!” izhi-biibaagi, imaa jiimaaning izhi-gichiwaakwii. “Gojitoon,” odigoon oshiimenzhan Carol-an, naningitaagoziwan. “Haaw sa miinooch...” wewebikweni Randi jibwaa-gichi-ikwanaamod, apane dash miinawaa googii.

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where the owner had gone down, with fishing lines and hooks. They found him shortly. Randy thought of the young policeman, who likely knew it was hopeless, but had tried to give mouth-to-mouth resuscitation to the grey-faced body. The constable had gagged. What if that guide hadn’t been drunk? He shook his head. It wouldn’t do anybody any good now to keep thinking about it. The camp owner was gone, dead, drowned. “It’s kinda hard to believe, isn’t it?” Randy asked of no one in particular. His sisters just looked at him. It was hard to believe. The July sun shone as hot on his bronze skin. The surface of the lake was as calm as it had been before the drowning. The laughter of the tourists echoed in the quiet afternoon.

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Wiinge makadewinaagwan anaamiindim. Miziwe aana-ayinaabi, zanagan gegoon ji-waabanjigaadeg, ozaam wiinaagamin. Anaamiindim imaa gaa-debaabandang mitakamig, agaawaa owaabamaa’ asinii’, gaye mitaawang, gaye mitigoog gaa-gii-gozaabiiwaapan, gaye anzaziin. Gegaa aazha ishkanaamo, indawaa miinawaa mooshkamo. “Gaawiin osha nin-daa-mikawaasii,” ikido. Zhaagooch niswaa giiyaabi gii-googii, daswaa gii-googiid, e-gikendang aazha gaawiin. Naanaage Randy gaye oshiimenzha’ gii-giiwewag endaawaad, e-minikwaadamowaad ozhiiwaaboomiwaa’ naanaakwaandawaaning. Gii-bagamibizooban dakoniwewinini wiiba bigo gii-maajiibaabiibaaginaaniwang. Amii gaa-izhi-inaad ini ininiwa’ ji-gagwemikawaawaad ini ininiwan gwaashkwebijiganan ji-aabajitoowaad. Debwe sa o-gii-mikawaawaan. Awe dash dakoniwewinini weshkaadizid miinooch o-gii-gagwe-bimaaji’aan ini wemitigoozhiwan gaa-gii-nisaabaawenid. Giimade-aa’aagade iinzan awe dakoniwewinini. Giishpin giiwashkwebiisigiban awe bima’oozhiwewinini, inendam. Anishaa iwe nindinendam, gaawiin misawaach daa-onji-giiwebimaadizisii awe gwaashkwebijigewigamigoo-ogimaa. Gii-nibo. Giinisaabaawe. “Maamakaach,” ikido Randy. Oshiimenzha’ o-michi-ganawaabamigoo’. Debwe maamakaadendaagwan. Wiinge ogizhizogoon giizisoon ozhagaying. Wiinge giiyaabi anwaatin, daabishkoo gaa-gii-izhinaagwak zaaga’igan jibwaa-nisaabaawed awe inini. Onoondawaa’ e-made-baapinid ini gichi-mookomaana’ iwe e-ishkwaa-naawakweg.

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I Don’t Know This October Stranger I don’t know this October stranger, each dawn groping for an alarm clock, selecting a blue polyester suit that used to belong to an indian from the backforests of northwestern Ontario. This autumn stranger washes a once familiar face, runs windburnt fingers over a cowlick-topped head of black hair, the exact image of a man I swear I once knew. This October stranger adjusts his blue tie, flips through documents before sliding them into a $40 briefcase and then rides off on a rocking subway train to his 2nd story office on Eglinton Avenue E. in Toronto.

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Gaawiin Nin-gikenimaasii awe Biiwide Gaa-dagoshing Binaakwewi-giizis E-bimangizod Gaawiin nin-gikenimaasii awe biiwide gaa-dagoshing Binaakwe-giizis ebimangizod, endaso-gizheb e-naaji-debibinind diba’igiiziswaan, e-odaapinigaadeg ozhaawashko-miziweshkigan bezhig anishinaabe gaa-gii-dibendangiban wedi noopimiing giiwedinong Ontario e-gii-onjiipan. Awe dagwaaging biiwide miinawaa giziingwe ozhooshkonaan oninj imaa otigwaaning makadewaanikwed bangii gaa-ishpishkaanig owiinizis amii go gegaa ezhinaagozid bezhig inini aabiding gaa-gii-gikenimagiban. Awe dash Binaakwewi-giizisoo-biiwide onana’aabiigishimaan onaabikawaaganan owaawaabandaanan mazina’iganan jibwaa-biinjiwebinang omazina’iganiwazh $40 gaa-gii-inangidenig apane dash maajiibizo e-boozid imaa anaamakamig odaabaaning wedi ogijiya’iing ozhibii’igewigamigong Eglinton Avenue E gaa-izhinikaadenig miikana Toronto. Gaawiin nin-gikenimaasii awe Binaakwewi-giizisoo-biiwide gaa-ozhibii’ang odibaajimowinan gaye odoozhibii’iganan daabishkoo gete-wemitigoozhi Chaucer dazhi-gaakaanjiwebishkaagod gaawiin e-bagidinigosig ji-gibichiid ji-anweshing,

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I don’t know this autumn stranger that writes his stories and poems as if Chaucer himself was kicking him along, never letting him rest, this indian dedicated to becoming published. I don’t know this October stranger that left a love of three years behind without a kiss; this autumn stranger that knew his 14-year-old sister would be left all alone in a boarding school and yet migrated south — I don’t know this October stranger.

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aapiji e-andawendang awe anishinaabe ji-onji-ozhichigaadenig mazina’igan odoozhibii’iganan. Gaawiin nin-gikenimaasii awe Binaakwewi-giizisoo-biiwide gaa-gii-naganaapan gaa-gii-zhawenimaapan niso-biboon gaawiin nawaach inaa e-gii-ojiimaapan ishkwaawaach awe dash dagwaagin biiwide gaa-gii-gikendang oshiimenzhan ji-nishikewizinid ji-ayaanid gikino’amaadiiwigamigong zhaagooch dash e-gii-maajaad, zhaawanong e-izhaad— Gaawiin nin-gikenimaasii awe Binaakwewi-giizisoo-biiwide.

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Just Another Bureaucrat I remember all the fuzzy idealism of my friend Donnie as he progressed from academic upgrading to first-year university and then finally to graduation with a BA in sociology. We’d spend hours, sitting around a beat-up coffee table, drinking tea, or coffee, or pop. Occasionally, Donnie would have a beer. I refused even beer and both of us stayed away from the real ‘hard stuff.’ Liquor was too much of a factor in the total washout of self-respect and integrity of our people, the great Ojibway. The great Ojibway indeed. Once we were, but not anymore. Donnie and I would shake our fuzzy idealistic heads and many times talk into the wee hours of the morning. I missed my discussions with Donnie for two years after he received his BA. No one had worked harder for that piece of paper than Donnie; I was as sure of that then as I am still. I was elated when I heard Donnie had gone down to the U of T to work on an MA in social work. What hopes I allowed to grow in me. At last, when Donnie came back to Thunder Bay, we, the Native people, would have a champion, articulate and concerned, fighting on our behalf. The great brown hope. Eagerly, impatiently, I looked forward to Donnie taking over the directorship of the DIAND or the ICS. As for me, well, it was a different story. For four years, upon graduation from Grade 13, my life had been one of job hopping, starting out on university courses and then dropping out, not just once or twice. All I seemed to be good in was English but that editor in Michener’s The Fires of Spring hit the nail on the head when he said English, was “a bloody useless thing to be good in.” Thus, I waited for Donnie. Maybe, the fuzzy ideals we had reached and groped for with our minds were by now clearly defined by his superb educational training. Perhaps, he could help me with a vision I had.

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Bezhig eta Miinawaa Zhooniyaa-ogimaaodanokiitamaage Nin-ganwiike gaa-gii-nitaa-izhi-gaagiigidopan ni-wiijiiwaagan Donnie apii nitam gii-giizhitoopan gaa-nitamisininig ogikino’amaagoowin, miinawaa dash ishpi-gikino’amaadiiwigamigong gii-ani-izhaad, giigiizhitood dash miinawaa iwe. Moozhag ako nin-gii-nanamadabimin e-minikweyaang gwaapii, dii, ningoding gaye zhiiwaabo. Naanigoding wiin gii-minikwe zhingobiiwaabo. Gaawiin niin, gaawiin gaye wiikaa ishkodewaabo wiin gii-minikwesii. Ozaam wiin iwe niibiwa niidanishinaabeminaanig onishiwanaaji’igonaawaa iwe ishkodewaabo. Anishinaabeg. Mewinzha gi-gii-zazegaa-anishinaabewimin. Gaawiin dash noongom. Amii ko iwe gaa-gii-nitaa-dazhindamaang niin zhigo Donnie, biinish gii-ishpidibikag. Apii dash gii-giizhitood odishpi-gikino’amaagoowin, gaawiin ningii-waabamaasii. Nin-gii-medasinaa. Aapiji gii-gichi-anokii ji-debinang iweni mazina’iigin gaa-izhisininig e-gii-giizhitood ogikino’amaagoowin. Nin-gii-minwendaan gii-noondamaan apane iinzan miinawaa awashime e-ando-ishpi-gikino’amawind, MA gaa-izhinikaadenig e-wii-akoshkaad. Owe dash gaa-gii-onji-jiikendamaan, apii giizhitood ogikino’amaagoowin, da-bigiiwe Donnie omaa Animikii-wiikwedong, ji-bi-naadamawinangid nin-gii-inendam. Wiin aaniish da-nitaagaagiigido, o-da-nagajitoon gaa-izhisenig gakina gegoon, gi-ganaadamaagonaan. Ambegish ogimaawid omaa zhooniyaa-ogimaakaang maagizhaa gaye gaa-izhi-miigiwewaad zhooniyaan imaa ICS. Niin dash wiin, gaawiin iwe nin-gii-izhisesii. Gii-ishkwaagiizhitoowaan iwe Grade 13, nin-gii-michi-babaa-anokii. Gaawiin gisikaw ningoji nin-gii-anokiisii. Nin-gii-maajitoon ako ishpigikendaasowin, amii dash ako gaa-izhi-boonitoowaan jibwaagiizhitoowaan, gaawiin wiin igo gaye aabiding eta, gemaa niizhwaa eta. Amii eta iwe gaa-nagajitoowaan zhaaganaashiimowin. Amii Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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I had a dream of gathering all the prose, the poetry, and whatever art could be printed, into a literary journal. I had met and b.s.ed with many Native writers, poets, artists, whether real or pretended, throughout the width and depth of northwestern Ontario. Though some ideas had to be explored and re-examined, we had roughed out the course we were going to follow. With the master’s degree in social work Donnie had acquired, he could give us some objective, purely intellectual insights into the implications of such a project. The day of Donnie’s return came. Donnie was given as close to red carpet treatment as allowed for an Indian. His name, his picture, and his achievements were in the local papers. A brief mention was even made in the people section of the Globe and Mail. His appointment as assistant administrator of the Thunder Bay office of the ICS was pointed out as a monumental accomplishment for the betterment of the Native cause of Canada. That’s stretching things too far, I thought, happy for Donnie and his success, and yet feeling somehow, he’d agree with me. It was on an October Friday afternoon. I gathered together my notes, my proposal, typed as neatly as possible, stuffed into a briefcase, and rode the Main Line bus to Donnie’s office on Bay Street. With my pulse faster than normal, at least I suspected it was, I got off just a little ways from the ICS office. It had been just about perfect for our plans when Donnie had taken that position with the ICS. This branch of the provincial government was a possible source of funding for our vision. Donnie could possibly help in more ways than one. The sign on the door was in gold capital letters. DONALD J. BROWN — MSW ‘COME IN,’ an authoritative, professional voice answered my knock. I did so, my palms suddenly, unusually sweaty. Donnie, the Donnie behind the rich mahogany desk, was a stranger to me. Or rather, I was a stranger to him. He had changed. His suit was of fine cut and of some cloth I had no chance of being able to name. He now had a huge stomach. “Make three copies of that and send one to the Minister,” he dictated, as he looked up, not recognizing me. Damn, I thought backing out the door, just another bureaucrat.

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bezhig wemitigoozhi gaa-ikidopan imaa Ziigwani-ishkoden gaaizhinikaadenig mazina’igan owe e-gii-ikidod, giishpin nagajitooyin iwe zhaaganaashiimowin amii iwe maawach gaawiin gegoon inaabadazinoon. Amii dash gaa-izhi-bii’ag Donnie. Maagizhaa gakina iwe gaa-gii-nitaadazhindamaang gii-oshkaadiziyaang, maagizhaa amii iwe ge-anokaadang apii gaa-giizhitood od-ishpi-gikino’amaagoowin. Maagizhaa nin-gawiiji’ig ji-debinamaan geniin gaa-izhinamaan ji-izhiseg. Amii gaa-inendamaambaan ji-gii-maawadoonigaadegibaniin gakina gaa-gii-ozhibii’igewaad anishinaabeg gaye mazinibii’iganan bezhig mazina’iganing dash ji-izhi-maawadoobii’igaadegin. Niibiwa nimegwaashkawaag gaa-ozhibii’igewaad anishinaabeg, gaye mazinibii’igeg omaa giiwedinong Ontario. Giiyaabi daa-waawaabanjigaade iwe aaniin geizhi-minonaagwakiban, wiin dash odayaan ishpi-gikendaasowin Donnie. Wiin o-daa-gikendaan aaniin ge-izhichigaadegiban iwe ji-minotaagwag. Gegapii gii-dagoshin omaa oodenaang Donnie. Gii-gichiinendaagwan e-dagoshing. Owiinzowin gaye omazinaakizon giiateniwan dibaajimoo-mazina’iganing. Gaye imaa Globe and Mail, gii-dibaajimaaganiwi. Amii dash imaa ICS ozhibii’igewigamigong gaa-asind ji-ogimaakandang. Gichi-gegoon iwe gii-inendaagwan. Nin-giiminwendaan iwe e-izhiseg. Gewiin jiikendamodog nin-gii-inendaan. Ishkwaa-naawakwe dash e-dagwaagig, binaakwe-giizis gii-bimangizod. Nin-gii-maawadoonaanan nindoozhibii’iganan, nin-gii-ozhitoon aaniish bezhig andooshkige-mazina’igan, mashkimoding e-gii-biina’amaan. Apane dash basing nin-gii-booz e-izhaayaan odoozhibii’igewigamigong imaa Bay miikanaang. Nindoojaanimendam bangii e-gabaayaan. Nim-bimose ajina e-ina’adoowaan imaa. Amii iwe ji-minoseg mayaa nindinendaan e-abid imaa, e-ogimaawid imaa gaa-onji-miigiweng zhooniyaa ji-gashkichigaadeg gegoon ji-izhiseg. Amii omaa ge-onjiid zhooniyaa ji-gashkichigaadeg iwe gaa-andawendamaan ji-izhiseg. Ozhibii’igaadeni owiinzowin imaa ishkwaandeming. Ozaawizhooniyaa gii-aabadizi izhinaagwan e-ozhibii’igaadenig owiinzowin. DONALD J. BROWN — MSW “BIINDIGEN!” ni-noondawaa e-zoongitaagozid awiya. Nimbiindige. Donnie imaa namadabi. Gaawiin dash zezig izhinaagozisii gaa-gii-izhinaagozipan. Wiinge onizhishinini o-gichi-desabiwin,

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odoozhibii’igewinaak. Nindigo biiwide ezhinawag, maagizhaa gaye niin gaa-biiwidewiyaan. Bakaan izhinaagozi. Zazegaa-miziweshkigan gaa-bisikang. Wegodogwen wenji-ozhichigaadegwen iwe dinookaan miziweshkigan, gaa-agindeg dinookaan. Wiinge gaye gichi-mangimisade noongom. “Nisin naasaabibii’iganan ozhitoon,” odinaan awiyan, bekish e-biinaabid. Gaawiin nawaach ni-nisidawinaagosii. Ishe, nind-inendam, nindawaa nind-azhetaa, e-giiweyaan indawaa. Amii eta bezhig miinawaa zhooniyaa-ogimaa nindinendaan.

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Second Beauty She’s on her second life now, one husband gone in a hunting accident and the best friend is now the caretaker of her seven children, lines around her eyes, like the weaving of medicine spiders tell of her age for suffering and misfortune, the layers of fat from the starch of potatoes over thirty years hang over her skirt waist, yet she still flashes signs of the beauty that made my heart burn when I was but twelve, her uplifted chin, the sun of love flashing, her eyes black as she scolds her offspring to teach them a lesson of pain that will carry them beyond the end of her tomorrows. 62

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Miinawaa Onizhishiwin Oshki-bimaadizi noongom, bezhig onaabeman gii-nibowan gii-andawenjigenid awe dash inini owiijiiwaaganan noongom odashamaa’ gaa-niizhwaachinid oniijaanisa’, aazha ani-oziigijaabi daabishkoo mashkikii-manijooshag odasabiiwaa’ enaagwaninig endaso-bibooned gaa-moonzhi’igod gaa-bi-maanzhised, wiinino omisadaang ozaam gii-miijid opiniin nisimidana-daso-biboon gaa-bakijisininig ogoodaasing, giiyaabi dash naagozi e-onizhishid gaa-gii-agaawaanagiban ako gii-michi-midaashi-niizho-bibooneyaan, jaangidaamikanetaa naagwanini gizhewaadiziwin oshkiinzhigong gii-gizhii-ganoonaad oniijaanisa’ ji-gikino’amawaad wiisagendamowin ge-bimiwidoowaad apane ishkwaawaach wiin waabandang gizhebaawagan. Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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Summer Dawn on Loon Lake Elizabeth Commanda awoke to the slow music from her brother Henry’s radio. Lizzie, the name her family called her, was home from school again. Having danced to the rock rhythms of school bands on Friday nights at Hillcrest High in Thunder Bay, normally she did not care for country songs. Everyone here on the Loon Lake Indian Reserve, four hundred miles north of the city, liked only Henry’s type of music. However, John Denver did seem to fit in more here, in the midst of forest and more forest. Elizabeth thought this, as she rubbed her eyes, on the early July morning. She had to admit, mornings of listening to country music while getting up formed some of her fondest memories over the seventeen summers of her life. Since Grade 1 she had had to leave every school term,

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E-waabang E-niibing imaa Maango-zaaga’iganiing Goshkozi Elizabeth Commanda e-noondang gaa-noondaagwaninig nagamon wedi osayenzing ogitochiganing gaa-noondaagwaninig. Henry izhinikaazowan osayenzan. Lizzie izhinikaanaaganiwi ako Elizabeth; gii-bigiiwe dash e-niibing gikino’amaadiiwigamigong onji. Amii iko ini gaa-gizhiiwegin nagamonan gaa-zaagitood wiin, e-izhi-niimitang wedi gikino’amaadiiwigamigong gii-ayaad Hillcrest High gaa-izhinikaadenig imaa Animikii-wiikwedong, gii-niimi’iding gii-bakwezhigani-giizhigag. Gaawiin ako aapiji ominotanziinan ini bizhikiiwininii-nagamonan gaa-minotang Henry. Bizaanigo daa-minotaagozi John Denver omaa noopimiing, inendam Elizabeth, wiiba gizheb e-goshkozid. Amii sa wiinigo ezhi-maamikwendang gii-bi-ombigid e-gii-noondang bizhishig iweni dinookaan nagamon — bizhikiiwininii-nagamonan. Aazha midaashi-niizhwaaso-biboone. Apane Gr. 1 gii-biindiged, bizhishig ako maajaa, e-naganaad oniigi’igoo’ ji-ando-gikino’amawind ango-biboon. Endaso-niibin dash minwendam e-goshkozid omaa Maango-zaaga’iganiing. Ditibaaboono imaa nibewining, ji-wanishkaad. Owiinzigwaamaan oshiimenzhan Lillian gaa-izhinikaazonid. Naanibaayawe, zhiibii, daabishkoo oboozhiinsimiwaan Misty gaa-izhinikaazonid. Gegaa baapi e-inendang iwe. E-niibawid, Elizabeth izhaa imaa waasechiganing, bekish e-binaakwe’od oninjiin eta e-aabajitood. Wiinge na’inaagozi, giiwaabamaawaad ako awiyag Elizabeth-an, odoonizhishinawaawaan ako. Ogikendaan iwe, gaawiin dash gegoon inendanzii, ji-gichi-inenindizod daabishkoo. Wiinge aapiji onizhishin e-biidaabang waabanong. Ngoding miskwaanakwan, ningoding gaye waabi-miskwaanakwan. Giishpin zhemaak maajii’adood naanzibiid, o-da-debaabandaan jimiskwaanakwaninig mooka’ang giizis.

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leave her family for another winter. So she greeted most summer dawns at Loon Lake with gladness. She rolled over, swung her long brown legs over the side of the wooden bed she shared with Lillian, her youngest sister. Yawning, she stretched lazily, like their cat Misty. The idea brought a smile to her dark eyes. Standing up, Elizabeth went over to the window, combing her black hair with her slender fingers. Her figure, though slender, was well proportioned. Her clear complexion and high cheekbones made people who saw Elizabeth consider her a pretty girl. She knew this but never thought much of it, just accepted it. The skyline of the east was all different shades of red, from bright pink to soft lavender. If she hurried, she could be down to the shore just as the sun came up, all fiery red into the sky. Quickly taking off her nightie, Elizabeth slipped on an old sweater, put on faded and patched jeans, and went into the main living part of their wooden frame house. Just before stepping outside, she threw a rubber boot through the open doorway of Henry’s room. Giggling, Elizabeth heard the boot land with a thump and laughed on hearing her older brother’s muffled curses. Outside, it was quiet. The cool air caused goosebumps to appear on her bare forearms. Though it had been three weeks since she returned home by float plane, a Cessna, Elizabeth still felt the clearness of the air, smelled the aroma of the cedars on the faint touches of breeze. She enjoyed even more the little black-marked grey and white chickadees flitting from bough to bough among the bushes and evergreens. It felt a lot different each day still. She remembered the crowded buses in the time before nine o’clock throughout the winter. She often likened that existence to people being sardines, their can the large vehicle on wheels. Here, as she walked along each day, she would meet the people of the village. They walked along slowly, for the most part, not rushed at all. The men in plaid skirts and baggy cotton pants, the women in bright blouses and assorted coloured skirts that reached mid-calf would greet her in gentle voices. ‘Guttural’ — that was the word that Elizabeth had been told in school to describe the way her people talked their native Cree.

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Weyiib meshkwajikwanaye, biinda’oozon e-bisikang, gaye jiimaaniigini-midaasan. Apane zaaga’am imaa gaa-izhi-nibaawaad. Jibwaa-zaaga’ang dash o-gii-apagidoon makizinish imaa Henry gaaizhi-nibaad. Onjida odoodawaan osayenzan e-miikinji’aad. Apane baapi Elizabeth e-noondawaad e-nishki’aad osayenzan. Agwajiing wiinge anwaatin. Gaawiin gegoon ji-noondaagwak. Dakigizhebaawagan. Aazha niso-dwaate izhiseni gaa-bigiiwed Elizabeth, gaabimisemaganinig e-gii-bi-boozid. Wiinge giiyaabi odooshki-minaamaan giishkaatigoon bangii gii-noodininig. Onoondawaa’ aazha ini bineshiinzha’ gaa-maajii-babaamisenid odikwaning mitigong ishpiming. Wiinge ko gii-bakaanendaagwan endaso-giizhig. Gii-boozid ako basing wiiba gizheb jibwaa-zhaangaso-diba’iganeyaak gii-biboong, wiinge ko e-mooshkina’idinaaniwang imaa basing. Daabishkoo naa gaaziinjishkinewaad giigooyensag biiwaabikoonsing gaa-adaawaazowaad gii-inendaagwan, gichi-biiwaabikoons gaa-babaamibizoomagak. Omaa dash wiin, endaso-giizhig e-babaamosed, owaabamaa’ anishinaabe’ imaa gaa-daanid. Beda’adoowag gii-bimosewaad, gaawiin naa ji-gagwe-gizhiikaawaad. Ininiwag wiin gakakezinaateniwan obabagiwayaaniwaan gaye e-banangwegizinid odaasiwaa’. Ikwewag dash wiin giishkijii’onan obisikaanaawaan gaye giishki-magoodan bangii go gaa-ginwaabiiga’igewaad. Oganoonigoo’ ako ningoding. Ndigo ogwandashkowaang gii-onji-giigidowag enitawaad, giianishinaabemonid. Amii ko Elizabeth gaa-ikidod gii-gagwejimind gikino’amaadiiwigamigong ji-wiindamaaged aaniin enitaagwaninig anishinaabemowin. Naano-diba’iganens eta bimose ji-oditang Maango-zaaga’igan. Niningibinigozi epiichi-giikajid Elizabeth, e-waabandang e-awaninig giiyaabi imaa nibiing, wiinge e-anwaatininig. Basegaanashkoon imaa nitaawiginoon jiigew. Aazha miskwaate imaa waabanong, imaa agamiya’iing. Amii aazha gegaa ji-bagaki-giizhigak. Gete-mitig gaa-gii-gawaashingiban imaa bimaakoshin, wiinge aasaakamig nitaawigin imaa, amii dash imaa ezhi-onabid Elizabeth. Maada’amaazo gaa-minotang ako bezhig nagamon. “Amii gii-gizhebaawagak, daabishkoo iwe nitam gaa-giigizhebaawagakiban,” ina’amaazo awe nagamoowinini Cat Stevens

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It was only a five-minute walk to the beach of Loon Lake. Elizabeth shivered just seeing the mist hanging like white sheets over the calm and dark blue waters, the lake surface smooth. Bulrushes lined parts of the sandy shore. The sun promise of brightest pink now showed across from the eastern shoreline, some three miles away. Soon, it would be another summer dawn completed. Sitting on a decaying, moss-covered log lying in the pale sand, Elizabeth hummed a line of one of her favourite songs, “Morning has broken, like the first morning...” She wondered where Cat Stevens had seen such a dawn, and he must have, to sing the song with that feeling. Her train of thought changed. She began to say lines of a poem she had written for English Composition. Mr. Dunn had liked it. Dawn comes often like a glass mirror on Loon Lake, the sun reflects his smiling face upon the waters. Old man Josh comes and paddles away to search in his nets. He licks his lips for a good catch. I know. He’s my grandfather, and later, he fries the fish sizzling golden, the sun freshness of dawn, like his kind word on Loon Lake. Her arms around her drawn-up knees, Elizabeth frowned at the remembrance of her grandfather. She had never been able to describe the emptiness that filled her heart on thinking of Grandfather Josh. He had been sent away last March to some old folks’ home in Winnipeg. Too crazy in the head, her mother had explained in irritation, and besides, he scared the children, sometimes. Her mother had refused to say any more after that. But he was harmless, Elizabeth had protested in silence. Just last summer, she had gone out with old Josh in the patched and re-patched canvas canoe that he was so proud of. Elizabeth remembered

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gaa-izhinikaazod. Dibi gaa-waabandamogwen e-gizhebaawaganinig e-giionji-ozhitood dash nagamon, inendam Elizabeth. Aazha bakaan gegoon o-maajii-naanaagadawendaan. Omikwendaan gaa-gii-ozhibii’angiban gegoon gaa-gii-zaagitoonid iinzan bezhig gikino’amaagewininiwan, Mr. Dunn gaa-izhinikaazonid. Owe gii-izhibii’igeban: Daabishkoo waabamon izhinaagwan gii-biidaabang imaa Maango-zaaga’iganiing, mazinaateshin giizis gii-zhawiingwenid imaa nibiing. Akiwenzi Josh biidaakogomo apane dash e-naadisabiid. Aazha gaa-ozhidoonenid ji-gaachidinaad niibiwa giigooya’, Nimishoomis awe, naanaage dash, o-da-zaasaabikizwaa’ ji-ozaawaakizonid, wiinge e-minwaateg gizheb daabishkoo o-gizhewaadiziwin imaa Maango-zaaga’iganiing. Ogidigoo’ ominjiminaa’ e-namadabid, Elizabeth dash o-maajiimikwenimaan omishoomisan. Gaawiin ako wiikaa o-daa-gashkitoosiin ji-dibaajimod aaniin mayaa epiichi-gwenawenimaad o-mishoomisan Josh gaa-izhinikaazonid. Odaanaang migiziwi-giizis gii-bimangizod, giimaajinizhawaaban akiwenziiwigamigong wedi Miskwaagamiwi-ziibiing. Giiwashkweyaadizi, gii-ikidowan omaamaan, ozegi’aa’ abinoojiizha’ ningoding, gii-ikido. Gaawiin dash miinawaa gegoon gii-ikidosiiwan omaamaan. Gaawiin awiyan gegoon o-daa-izhi-maanzhidoodawaasiin, gii-inendam Elizabeth. Niibinong apane o-gii-wiijiiwigoobaniin omishoomisan e-gii-babaamaakogomowaad gete-jiimaaning. Wiinge baatiinwaa gii-bagwa’igaadeban iwe jiimaanish, wiinge dash awe akiwenzi o-gii-gichi-inendaan iweni. Omikwenimaan omishoomisan gaaizhinaagozinid gii-gichi-zhawiingweninid gii-jiikendamonid e-gijibinaad ogaansan asabiing. Bangii noodin. Waabanong e-inaabid, aazha gii-mooka’am giizis, aazha wanakong mitigoo’ wedi waasa agaaming izhi-waasaate. Miskonaagwan,

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her grandfather laughing, his weather-lined face crinkled in delight after plucking pickerel from his gill net. A whisper of breeze touched her cheeks. Looking up to the east, she saw the top half of the sun had risen above the treetops on the other side of the lake. It was red, like a ripe tomato in a supermarket, like the fresh blood of the gutted fish that her grandfather had prepared for her lunch that last time she had seen him. She knew it was silly, and that nothing would ever bring him back, yet she wished he could see this sunrise with her. For she had decided this would be her last summer here for quite a while. She wasn’t sure yet where she would live. She wasn’t even sure what she was going to do with her life, but she knew it would not be here. For the education she was receiving made her reject the too-limited life offered in the village. She wanted to see other parts of the country, maybe even visit another land, another continent. Why? She was not even sure of that. At least not yet, Elizabeth concluded, shaking her long black hair in a swirl. Down from another path, a young woman, her stomach swollen with the child she bore, came to the water’s edge. Ellen Blackstone was only a year older than Elizabeth. Unlike Elizabeth, she had dropped out of school in Grade 3, and already had one child with a second on its way. Ellen stooped laboriously, filled her aluminum pail, and then went trudging back the way she had come. There had to be more for herself, Elizabeth hoped, as the soft tread of feet sounded behind her. “Thinking of your honkie boyfriend again, uh Lizzie?” Henry’s voice teased. “No, Henry, just thinking,” Elizabeth answered. “Just thinking of Grandfather, and that I’m not coming back again next summer.” Henry didn’t answer, just looked at her, before bending to splash water on his face. “I was wondering when you would get to be a white woman for sure...” Henry grinned at her from behind his towel. “I’m not though...” Elizabeth started to protest, but Henry stopped her, continuing,

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daabishkoo oginiig gaa-ayaawaad adaawewigamigong, daabishkoo miskwi gii-ishkwaa-bagojiinaad giigooyan omishoomisan, e-gii-naawakwegiizhideboonigopan ishkwaawaach gii-waabamaapan. Ambegish naa gewiin omaa niibawid ji-waabandang owe gaa-apiichi-onizhishing e-mooka’ang giizis, inendam, odaana-gikendaan gaawiikaa miinawaa jiwaabamaasig. Amii gaa-giizhendang amii owe ishkwaawaach ji-bigiiwed e-niibininig. Baamaa wiikaa ngoding miinawaa da-bigiiwe. Gaawiin ogikendaziin aaniindi ge-izhidaad. Gaawiin gaye ogikendaziin mayaa aan waa-izhichiged, aan ge-ondaadizid. Amii eta ezhi-gikendang gaawiin omaa ishkoniganing e-wii-dazhi-nepiji-izhidaasig. Aaniish aazha baakach gii-ishpi-gikino’amawaa. Odaanawendaan omaa gaa-waabandang dinookaan bimaadiziwin. Ningoji bakaan omaa Canada akiing wii-ayaa. Maagizhaa gaye agaamakiing o-wii-gagwewaabandaan. Wegonen dash wenji-inendang iwe? Gaawiin ogikendaziin. Gaamashi nin-gikendaziin, inendam Elizabeth, imaa e-namadabid. Wedi binaagozi oshkiniigikwe, gigishkawaawaso, imaa jiigew biniibawi. Ellen Blackstone izhinikaazo, gegaa o-wiiji-daso-biboonemigoon Elizabeth. Wiiba wiin gii-booni-gikino’amaagoziiban, gii-agaashiinzhid igo. Aazha bezhig abinoojiizhan odayaawaan, aazha dash miinawaa bezhig da-nitaawigiwan. Made-gwaaba’ibii Ellen, apane miinawaa gopa’ibii. Nawach niibiwa gegoon ni-nandawendaan inendam Elizabeth. Gaawiin wiin eta owe. “Gi-naanaagadawenimaa na gi-wemitigoozhiinsim, Lizzie?” odigoon Henry-an osayenzan e-miikinzomigod. “Gaawiin, Henry,” odinaan Elizabeth. “Ni-michi-naanaagadawendam. Zhoomis gaa-mikwenimag. Gaawiin dash gaye ganabach nin-ga-bigiiwesii omaa ge-niibing.” Gaawiin nakwetanzii Henry, o-michi-ganawaabamigoon, jibwaamaajii-giziingwed. “Amanj apii naa ge-maajii-wemitigoozhiikwewiyin gi-gii-inenimin,” odigoon Henry-an. Ogiimoodaapi’igoon megwaa e-giziingwe’onid. “Gaawiin wiin iwe nindayaasii...” maajii-ikido Elizabeth, ogibitinigoon dash osayenzan.

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“I knew that sometime you wouldn’t come back, but you have to do what you want, Lizzie, even if it means you won’t live here after this summer. You will come back to visit though, won’t you, and I’ll pick up your half-breed kids by the neck, throw them on the shore, when you do come back sometime...” Henry started to laugh. That brother of mine, Elizabeth thought, having to smile. It was true, what Henry said, sometimes she would like to visit. She heard her mother calling, and waiting for Henry to come with her, she expelled a deep breath. She took a final look that morning at the ripples of first wind on the lake. From across the waters, a loon’s call sounded, lonely, sad. Summer dawn on Loon Lake would always be a cherished memory.

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“Aazha nin-gii-gikendaan ji-bi-giiwesiwan ningoding. Bizaanigo izhichigen waa-izhichigeyin, Lizzie, aanawi bigiiwesiwan omaa. Ningoding dash wiinigo zhaagooch gi-ga-bi-mawadishiwe. Nin-gazaagijiwebinaag gi-niijaanishishag gaa-wiisaakodewiwaad, imaa nin-gabaashkinedaawangishimaag, bigiiweyin...” maajii-gichi-baapi Henry. Editawe awedi, inendam Elizabeth. Debwe sa go, amii iwe gaa-ikidod Henry, ningoding o-da-andawendaan ji-bi-gii’ooded. Onoondawaan e-andomigod omaamaan. Obii’aan ji-bi-gopiinid Henry-an. Gichibagidanaamo. Ishkwaawaach oganawaabandaan iweni zaaga’igan, bangii bagamaanimanini. Wedi waasa agaaming onoondawaan maangwan, nindigo gii-zhagadendamowan enitaagozinid. Bizhishig o-daminwendaan mikwendang owe Maango-zaaga’igan aaniindi go ayaad, inendam.

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Folk Hero: Gerald Bannatyne Gerald B. recounts the experiences of 60 years up and down the shores of Lac Seul. Other men have their Lake Nipigon and Leif the Lucky (anyone who crosses the Atlantic in a wooden crate is indeed a lucky man) had his ocean. Gerald B. is the local passage to nostalgia and history. Even people in Ear Falls need a folk hero. Gerald B. will do. He didn’t waste his lungs building a dream castle for an unreturned love and he shot off an army standard .303 in the first great war and lived to come back as now, he breathes out memories from his log cabin for the Observer stories of integrity and lies up and down the shores of Lac Seul.

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Gechi-inenimind: Gerald Bannatyne Gerald B. odazhindaan gaa-bi-waabandang gaa-akoningodwaasomidana-daso-bibooned imaa Obizhigokaang. Godag ininiwag Lake Nipigon odayaanaawaa, gaye Leif Menosed gaa-gii-izhinikaazod (debwe sa go awiya gaa-aazhawishkaad gichigamiing gichi-makakong aapiji minose awe inini) gewiin o-gii-ayaan ogichigami. Gerald B. dash awe gichi-inendaagozi e-gii-bi-gichi-izhinang mewinzha. Booshke igi Otawagi-baawitigong wii-gichi-inenimaawaad awiyan, amii ini Gerald. B, ge-gichi-inenimaawaad. Gaawiin o-gii-nishiwanaajitoosiinan opanan e-gagwe-ozhitood gichi-mitigo-waakaa’igan ge-onji-minwenimigod ikwewan gaa-gii-naganigod o-gii-baashkizaan gaye gii-zhimaaganishiiwid .303 baashkizigan gii-gichi-miigaading nitam gii-zhaabwii dash, e-gii-bigiiwed noongom dash e-dibaajimod gaa-ganwiiked imaa owaakaa’iganensing, e-wiindamawaad ini Observer dibaajimoo-mazina’igan odibaajimowinan gii-gwayakwaadizid gaye giiwanimowinan miziwe imaa naanew Obizhigokaang.

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Track Star Leslie ran the two-mile route around the Niagara Boulevard every morning and afternoon. Then he would run intervals of the quarter-mile track behind the campus of Niagara Christian College in the small town of Fort Erie, Ontario. Panting, bone weary but pleasantly so, he would take off his blue track suit, shower, and prepare for another night of study on his Grade 13 subjects. One afternoon early in May, he saw a slender black-haired girl reading a book underneath the spacious boughs of a willow. His heart seemed to quicken in its pulse as he walked by, nodding in a wordless greeting. The track meet for their private school’s athletic conference was scheduled for the last Thursday in May, and Leslie was determined to do well for his school. Running had always been an essential part of his life on the paths of his reserve home of Lac Seul in the forest regions of northwestern Ontario. Ever since he was eight years old, he had taken part in the run of endurance around the island home of that band of Ojibways. He had always finished at the top of his age group. By the time he reached his thirteenth summer, he had managed to keep up with most of the older boys and younger men. Raven hair aswirl, in the winds of his racing feet, he would imagine himself a conqueror warrior returning home. Those were the days of his pride being forged in the forest paths of stamina; for though others were swifter and stronger, his heart and even then indomitable will had carried him to victory in the races of the summer feasts. And even when he had started leaving his Native home for boarding school for most of his academic schooling, the thrill and excitement of foot races had become in a way the symbol of his self-respect and way of preserving his childhood identity as an Ojibway. For Leslie was a stranger now. No more could he return to his boy’s place of races without yearning

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Netaa-bimibatood Leslie gizhibaabatoo imaa Niagara Miikana ningojigo niizho-diba’akaan endaso-gizheb gaye endaso-ishkwaa-naawakwe. Amii dash miinawaa imaa bimibatoo-miikanaang awasiya’iing imaa Niagara Christian College, imaa oodenaang Fort Erie gaa-izhinikaadeg ezhi-bimibatood. Apane wiinge gichi-ayekonaamo, ayekozi, ominwendaan dash. Ogiichigoshkaan iweni bimibatoowayaan gaa-bisikang, giziibiigii, apane dash ozhiitaa ji-maajiiaginjiged gabe-naagosh ji-giizhitood iwe Grade 13 ogikino’amaagoowin. Aabiding e-ishkwaa-naawakweg maango-giizis gii-bimangizod, o-gii-waabamaan oshkiniigikwen e-makadewaanikwenid e-namadabinid dibinawaang. Aginjigewan. Jiikendam e-waabamaad, e-bimosed imaa jiigiya’ii. Michi-naanaamikweni e-ganawaabamaad. Da-gagwejikazhiwenaaniwan gegaa ishkwaangizod maangogiizis, amii dash ezhi-mashkawendang Leslie ji-gagwe-bakinaaged. Bizhishig ako gii-nitaa-bimibatoo, wedi ishkoniganing Obizhigokaang gaa-izhinikaadenig. Gaa-ako-nishwaaso-bibooned, gii-nitaagagwejikazhiweban ako, e-giiwitaabatoowaad imaa gichi-minising. Wiin ako bizhishig gii-niigaanibatoo, bezhigwan gaa-daso-biboonewaad gwiiwizensag. Apii gii-midaashi-niso-bibooned, amii aazha gii-adimaad oshkiniigiinsa’ gaye ininiwa’. Amii ko gaa-giimooji-inenindizod, daabishkoo naa e-ogijitaawid. Wiinge o-gii-minwendaan e-gashkitood ji-zoongizid, waasa ji-apatood, ji-gashkitood ji-bakinaaged. Gii-maajaad dash, gii-maajii-nagadang odishkonigan ji-andogikino’amawind waasa zhaawanong, bizhishig gii-bimibatoo. Amii iwe gaa-ondinang ji-onji-gichi-inenimod, gaawiin wiin ji-ozaami-gichiinenindizod, ji-mino-gichi-inenimod igo. Noongom dash bakaan inaadizi. Gaawiin giiyaabi odebendaziin ishkoniganing ji-dazhi-bimibatood. Nawach onandawendaan gichi-oodenaang ji-dazhi-babaamibatood. Amii aaniish imaa gakina gegoon gechi-inendaagwak eyaamagak inendam.

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to be once more back in the towns where the words and lives of all Canadians were controlled. So, upon the dawning of each day, in his eighteenth spring, he would dress in a sweatsuit and with a shiver, in anticipation of once again subjecting his body to the strength of his will, he would with vapoured breath begin his daily race of life. It was on a Thursday afternoon, exactly two weeks before the interschool track meet when Leslie, his heart starting to accelerate as in the start of a race, approached the Grade 12 girl who seemed to be absorbed in a book. The distance from underneath the willow tree where she sat to the bandstand surrounding the track and football field seemed incredibly long. To Leslie, the physical stress of the last quarter of a mile would have been easier than the walk to Caroline. He regarded her with deliberate, planned puzzlement as he approached. Caroline, shoulder-length black hair and the complexion of girls in ads of Miss Chatelaine, looked up. “Hi, ah, what you, I mean what’s the name of the book?” His palms felt cold and yet sweaty. “It’s...” Caroline’s slender fingers flipped the book over, The Complete Poems of Emerson. “Do you like poetry too? I do and...” “You see I have to do a paper...” They both had started speaking at the same time. Why, she’s as nervous as I am, Leslie thought. A little more easily, he spoke. “Would you like to walk, somewhere?” “I was supposed to...” Caroline looked at him and he saw the hesitation evaporate as she began to smile.” “Okay.” Slowly, as if afraid to break the magic bubble of friendship found, he cast sidelong glances at her turned-up nose with its sprinkle of freckles as they walked to the banks of the Niagara River. The next week was an as emotionally mixed-up time for Leslie as he could remember. He would get up about seven and prepare to race in the fresh morning light of day. His feet would fly, or so it seemed, over the training route. His body would want to rebel, quit, but his will would carry him

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Noongom dash endaso-gizheb, e-midaashi-nishwaaso-bibooned, ogigishkaan obimibatoowayaan, amii dash ako e-gikendang ji-zanaganinig ge-doodang, e-ozhiitaad ji-gichi-bimibatood. E-ishkwaa-naawakweg dash e-ishkwaa-aabitawiseg, niizho-dwaate jibwaa-gagwejikazhiwewaad, gaa-gii-inendang Leslie, wiinge e-giimoojigotaajid, ji-naanzikawaad ini ikwezensan, Grade 12 gaa-ayaanid, bizhishig ako gaa-aginjigenid. Amii imaa jiigi-mitigong ako gaa-made-namadabid awe oshkiniigikwe. Nawach wendan gii-gichi-giiwitaabatoong apiich wiin omaa gii-naanzikawag awe ikwezens, inendam Leslie. Caroline izhinikaazowan ini ikwezensan. Oganawaabamaan e-naanzikawaad. E-gikenimigod e-biizhaanid, onji-biinaabiwan ini ikwezensan. “Boozhoo! Aan, aan giin, aa, aan ezhinikaadeg iwe mazina’igan,” odinaan. Wiinge abweninjii. “Iya’ii,” awe ikwezens odanimikowebinaan iweni mazina’igan. “ ‘Gakina Emerson Odoozhibii’iganan’ izhinikaade.” “Gi-zaagitoon na iwe dinookaan ozhibii’igan? Geniin...” “Nindanoonigoo ji-ozhibii’amaan gegoon...” Gaa-izhi-niizhiwaad gii-maajii-gaagiigidowag naasaab apii. Gewiin iinzan zhaagwenimo, inendam Leslie. Daabishkoo niin. Bangii na’endam. Aazha miinawaa oganoonaan. “Gi-wii-babaamose na ningoji?” “Nin-daa-gii-...” Caroline oganawaabamigoon, gegaa ganabach gaawiin inendam, amii dash ezhi-maajii-zhawiingwenid. “Haaw.” Wiinge minwendam e-oshki-wiijiiwaad awiyan, zhaagooch dash zegizi ji-wanitood iwe. O-giimooji-negwaabamaan e-bimosewaad, e-waabandang bangii ingwana e-baapaatewiingwenid, e-jaangishangwanenid. Apane anigopaamajiwewag imaa jiigi-ziibi Niagara gaa-izhinikaadeg. E-ani-dwaateg wiinge gii-giiwashkweyendam Leslie. Apane mewinzha iwe gaa-gikendang e-inamanji’opan. Gii-niizhwaaso-diba’iganeyaak ako wanishkaa, e-ozhiitaad wiiba gizheb ji-maajii-gagwejikazhiwed. Wiinge ko maanamanji’o ningoding, zhaagooch dash inendam jigizhiibatood. Apane ko gaa-maajiibatood, waakaa’iganan gaa-waabandang gii-bimibatood, mitigoo’ gaye mashkosi, amii dash gaye bizhishig ini

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past that stage. On and on he would run, past the houses, the trees, the lawns of the Boulevard, Caroline always in his mind, until he finished his morning run at the dormitory. Then, a quick, cold shower, a brief study of his notes on last night’s homework, and off to breakfast. Nine o’clock classes. Meeting Caroline in the dark hallways, his heart would quicken at her smile, sink when he realized that she was being escorted by one of the guys in her class. During the day he would look away when he saw her, a sense of loss in him, though he knew he had no right to feel that way about something he had never had. Thursday. The meet was one week away as Leslie sat, hearing the rise and fall of the history teacher’s voice. Finally, the 3:45 bell rang. Leslie went out of the classroom, expelling a deep breath. It was hard to keep his mind on his subjects. And he’d better hurry if he was going to put in his five miles and ten laps of interval 440’s before supper. Forty minutes later, Leslie turned into the long driveway of the private high school. He ran down the right of the eighth-of-a-mile oval that served as a parking area, past the main buildings, and the girl’s dorm, toward the gym and the track behind. He saw her, even as he punched the stopper on the watch he held in his hand. Five miles in a little over thirty minutes. He stood, hands on hips, breathing deeply, as Caroline walked slowly by. He turned to her. “Caroline.” He was still breathing hard. “Yes.” Her reply was noncommittal. “Ahh, could I talk to you?” What was the matter with him! “Aren’t you?” a tug of a smile at the corners of her mouth. “What’s your favourite subject?” He felt like turning tail and running away. “History, I suppose. What’s yours?” “I should finish, oh yeah, history like you…..” She was going to think he was a real, genuine moron. “You mean you have to run around the track, your interval 440’s?” “How’d you know?” Surprise in his question. “Secret.” She smiled then. “Well, I should go...” Leslie looked toward the track.

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ikwezensan Caroline-an gaa-mikwenimaad gii-bimibatood, baamaa wedi gii-bagamibatood gaa-izhi-nibaad. Weyiib ako giziibiigii, ajina miinawaa oganawaabandaan ogikino’amaagoowin gaa-gii-dazhiikang dibikong, amii dash ako ezhi-maajaad e-ando-gikino’amawind. Zhaangaso-diba’iganeyaak aaniish maajii-gikino’amawaa. Onagishkawaan Caroline-an, jiikendam e-waabamaad, amii dash zhemaak ezhi-waabandang godag gwiiwizensan ningwana o-wiiji-bimosemaan. Ezhi-bangisaanowesemanji’od. Amii iwe gaa-giizhigak, gaawiin ako o-ganawaabamaasiin, amii dash ako ezhimaanendang daabishkoo e-gii-wani’aad e-inendang. O-gikendaan dash iwe ji-inendanzig gaawiin aaniish mashi o-gii-debinaasiin, wegonen gegii-onji-wani’aapan iwe gii-ishkwaa-aabitawisenig. Giiyaabi ango-dwaate ji-izhiseg jibwaa-gagwejikazhiwed. Namadabi imaa Leslie, onoondawaan gikino’amaagewininiwan e-gaagiigidonid. Gegapii madwesin iwe zhinawisijigan, 3:45 e-izhisenig. Apane zaaga’am Leslie, e-gichi-bagidanaamod. Wiinge ozanagendaan ji-bizindang ogikino’amaagoowining, odoondami-naanaagadawendaan aaniish bakaan gegoon. Weyiib wedi ji-izhaad giishpin goda naanodiba’akaan wii-gashkitood ji-bimibatood, gaye midaaswaa ji-waakaabatood 440 jibwaa-onaagoshi-wiisinid. Niimidana-daso-diba’iganens e-izhisenig, apane Leslie izhaa wedi ge-dazhi-bimibatood. Apane maajiibatoo, wedi waasa biinish. Wedi ikwezensag gaa-izhi-nibaawaad, wedi gagwejiiwigamigong, wedi dash gaa-izhi-bimibatoonaaniwang. Owaabamaan ini ikwezensan, e-gibichiid. Odiba’igiiziswaanensan omaagowebinaan. Naano-diba’akaan nisimidanashi-diba’iganens dash gii-dazhibatoo. Wiinge gichi-baapagidanaamo, bekish e-biskijiitaad. Bimosewan imaa Caroline-an. Oganawaabamaan. “Caroline!” odinaan. Wiinge giiyaabi gichi-baapagidanaamo. “Wegonen?” odigoon. Amii eta ekidonid. “Gi-daa-ganoonin na?” Aaniish naa wenji-inaad iwe? “Gi-ganoonish aazha,” odigoon, bangii wii-baapiwan. “Wegonen giin zaagitooyin gii-gikino’amaagooyin?” Epiichi-noojigo izhi-gagwedweyaan, inendam, ambegish ndawaa maajiibatoowaan, inendam, epiichi-gwenawi-ikidoyaan. “Mewinzha Gaa-gii-izhiseg, maawiin. Giin dash wiin?”

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“Is it okay if I watch?”’ “Why, sure.” She must have heard the eagerness in his tone. They both walked toward the track, Leslie feeling glad. But this feeling was more than that. It was closer, warmer in his mind to what happiness was. They reached the fine hard-packed sand surface of the track. Once more, he turned to her. “If you get bored, I won’t mind at all if you leave.” “Can I hold the stopwatch? You know, stop it after you finish once around?” “How do you know all this?” “I told you, it’s a secret.” “Yeah! Okay.” She went to sit on a bench, watching as he slipped off his cotton sweat pants. Wearing only his white track uniform and his training shoes, he stood, ready, his heart pounding with anticipation. “Now!” she said as he broke out in a fast run, down the sixty yards and around the first curving turn. Turning to run smoothly down the backstretch, curving again, breathing hard, coming off the final bend to kick with all his strength towards Caroline. He ran on by slowing to a stop. He walked back toward her, inhaling and exhaling to get his lungs full of air. “Fifty-eight seconds,” she read. “That’s good.” “It’s slow,” he panted, “but I have to do nine more of those. You sure you want to stay?” “Leslie, you’re starting to make me think you don’t want me around.” He didn’t answer. He started out again, and came out of the backstretch in time to see her disappear behind the gym. He finished, feeling his lungs begin to flame, not just with the demands his body was putting on them, and looked for the watch thinking, oh, heck. Eight more times around, each lap becoming increasingly torturous. Finally, his body crying out its pain, his soul exultant, he stopped, warm-up suit drenched with sweat. Leslie woke up the day of the meet. He jumped out of bed, went to the window. It was a beautiful day. Thinking of Caroline made him stop, hit

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“Nin-daa-gii-giizhitoon... Mewinzha Gaa-gii-izhiseg, geniin, daabishkoo giin...” epiichi-gagiibaadizid nin-ga-inenimig. “Amii na ezhichige’igooyin ji-giiwitaabatooyin ini 440 gaa-ijigaadegin?” “Eya, aaniish wenji-gikendaman iwe?” Wiinge goshkwendam e-gikendaminid. “Gaawiin nin-daa-wiindamaagesii,” ikidowan, baapiwan. “Haaw sa, nin-daa-gii-maajaa...” wedi ge-apatood inaabi Leslie. “Haaw sa. Bizaanigo na ganawaabiyaan?” “Haaw, bizaanigo.” Gikendamodog maawiin awe ikwezens e-jiikitaminid. Apane maajii’adoowag wedi gaa-izhi-bimibatoong. Minwendam Leslie. Amii dash enendang, amii maawiin owe gaa-ijigaadeg jiikendamowin. Gii-dagoshinowaad imaa gaa-dazhi-bimibatoong, oganoonaan ini ikwezensan. “Giishpin ani-minwaagaadendaman, bizaanigo maajaakan. Gaawiin gegoon ni-ga-inendanziin.” “Nin-daa-dakonaa na diba’igiiziswaanens? Nin-ga-gibitinaa dash apii aabiding gaa-giiwitaabatooyin.” “Aaniin dash wenji-gikendaman owe ji-izhichigeyin?: “Aazha gi-gii-inin, gaawiin nin-daa-wiindamaagesii.” “Haaw sa.” Ando-onabi imaa gaa-ginwaak desabiwin. Oganawaabamigoon e-giichigowebishkawaad omagakiimidaasan. Bimibatoowayaan eta obisikaan gaye obimibatoowakizinan. Ozhigaabawi. Apane, “Haaw!” odizhibiibaagimigoon ini ikwezensan, apane dash ezhi-maajiibatood. Nitam ningodwaak nishwaasomidana dasomizid apatoo. Apane dash ani-gwekii wedi, amii dash ezhi-biijibatood. Enigok bimibatoo. Gii-bi-beshonaagozid dash, gii-ani-bejibatoo jigibichiid aaniish. Gaa-ishkwaa-gibichiid, bi-biida’adoo, wiinge e-gichibabaapagidanaamod. “Gegaa ango-diba’iganens, .58 minigok,” odigoon. “Onizhishin.” “Nimbejibatoo,” odinaan. “Giiyaabi dash zhaangaswaa jigizhibaabatoowaan,” odinaan. “Bizaanigo giiwen giishpin wii-giiweyin.” “Leslie, gaawiin na ginandawenimishisii omaa ji-ayaayaan?” Gaawiin nakwetanzii. Apane miinawaa maajiibatoo. Apii giibigiiwebatood o-waabamaan e-ani-awasewesenid gagwejiiwigamigong.

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the wall with his fist. Going to the washroom, he found it crowded out. Guys shaving, showering, talking. He went down the hall to David’s room. David Reamer, from Aurora, Ontario, was the son of a Baptist minister; “But,” Leslie had told him, “we can be friends anyway.” David was still sleeping, an idiotic smile on his face. Leslie gently shook him, speaking softly. “Davie, oh Davie, it’s me, Louise!” David stirred, rolled over toward the wall as he spoke. “Leslie, oh Leslie, come on, it’s me, Caroline.” Leslie pulled the blankets off David’s body. “Get off it, you know I don’t have a prayer. Besides, you’re the one that told me what’s-his-face has the inside track.” David sat up, looked at Leslie leaning against the wall, “That was more than a month ago. Furthermore, I’ll have you know my sources reveal that stuck-up Caroline Buckley has her big, blue eyes on a certain guy that’s supposed to be a hero today. That guy had better live up to our expectations or I’ll personally wring his neck, like this.” He made a clothes-wringing motion before he slumped back on his bed. “Aw, you’re just saying that,” Leslie told him as he went out, wanting to believe it even as the prospect of the day gave him a shivery feeling down his spine. The track team representing Niagara assembled outside the front entrance of the school, laughing, talking in animated tones. Leslie stood on the fringe of a group. David was the centre of attention, as usual. David’s girl, Louise, small with long blonde hair, clung to his arm. She wasn’t a member of the team and she gave David a quick hug as the viceprincipal, who was going with the thirty-six members, hollered to board the bus. Leslie was the first one aboard and chose to sit two seats from the front. The seats on the chartered Greyhound bus that was to take them to the University of Waterloo quickly filled up. David came laughing, joking with almost everyone he saw, slapped Leslie on the back and sat on the seat behind him. Students stood outside the bus yelling, waving as Caroline came on, looked around and sat with a girlfriend.

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O-gii-giizhitoon, wiinge daabishkoo e-jaagidenigin opanan inamanji’o. Dibi gaa-izhisegwen nin-diba’igiiziswaanens. Apane nishwaaswaa gii-gizhibaabatoo, nawach e-ani-gagwaadagendang daswaa gaagiiwitaabatood. Wiisagendam, zhaagooch dash wiinge jiikendam. Gaamichi-dipaabaawed epiitabwezod. Apii gii-bagamishkaag ji-gagwejikazhiwed, gii-goshkozi iwe e-gizhebaawagak. Apane wanishkaabatoo. Waasechiganing zhemaak awiinaabi. Wiinge iinzan minogiizhigan. Omikwenimaan dash Caroline-an. Ezhi-gibichised gii-minwendangiban. E-izhaad giziibiigiiwigamigong, wiinge mooshkineni. Naaniibawiwag imaa godag oshkiniigiwag e-gaashkibaazowaad, e-giziibiigiiwaad, e-gaganoonidiwaad. Ndawaa wedi David gaa-izhi-nibaanid ina’adoo Leslie. David Beamer, Aurora Ontario onjiiwan. Anama’ewininiwan odeden, “Bizaanigo gi-ga-owiijiiwaaganimin aanawi anama’aashkiyin,” o-gii-inaabaniin e-babaapizhimaad. Giiyaabi nibaa David, bekish zhawiingweni e-nibaad. Ogokoshkowebinaan, oganoonaan, bangii dash wiisakwe. “Davie, oh Davie, niin Louise!” Aazha amajishkaa David, apan michi-gwekibani’o, giigido dash. “Leslie, oh Leslie! niin Caroline!” Owiikobidamawaan owaaboowaanini David-an. “Daga! Ge-naabaji’ipan. Giin osha gaa-gii-wiindamawiyin, awe bakaan gwiiwizens ozaagi’igoon Caroline-an.” Wanishkaa David, oganawaabamaan owiijiiwaaganan e-niibawinid imaa. “Awashime ango-giizis iwe gaa-gii-noondamaambaan. Amii dash gaye enitamaan wiinge iinzan Caroline Buckley odagaawaanaan bezhig awiyan ge-gichi-ineniminind noongom gaa-giizhigak. Amii dash awedi ge-gichiineniminind, amii ji-gii-bakinaagepan noongom gaa-giizhigak. Giishpin bakinaagesig, nin-ga-gibinewenaa. Daabishkoo owe.” Ezhi-manibidood odagwaniiwin, daabishkoo awiyan e-gibinewenaad e-izhichiged. ‘Aa, anishaa iwe gidikid,” odinaan owiijiiwaaganan, e-ani-zaaga’ang Leslie. Amii dash ezhi-wii-debwetawaad owiijiiwaaganan. Ambegish ganabach inendam. Gakina dash igi gwiiwizensag Niagara gikino’amaadiiwigamigong gaa-izhaawaad, gaa-wii-gagwejikazhiwewaad dash, imaa okogaabawiwag agwajiing mishawiya’ii. Baapiwag. Wiinge moojigendamoog. Opimeya’ii

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The bus sped along. Leslie’s agitation began to build and he knew he should relax. Caroline was sitting alone now. He very much wanted to, was trying to get up enough nerve to go and ask if he could sit with her. He was just about to get up when a guy went by frontward, spoke to Caroline, who hesitated for a second, then nodded, whereupon he sat down. Leslie mentally kicked himself. He had tried at various times over the past week to say something to Caroline, but always there was either one guy or another, or a group of girlfriends with her. That had been alright, but she hadn’t seemed to acknowledge him at all, so he had shrugged it off as another lost friendship that had never had much of a chance anyway. As he saw her laughing, her black hair swirling in her merriment, the hope that had been in him died in a constriction of his throat. The day was beautiful indeed. A slight breeze blew in from the north end of the tartan surface track. Dressed in his blue sweatsuit, fresh from the cleaners, Leslie stood at the entrance underneath the bleachers that were already filling up with the competitors from the other five schools of their athletic conference. Their colours marked each group of athletes; the red and white of Hamilton District, the navy and black of Eden, the gold and green from Great Lakes, the purple with white of the host team of Rockway, and his own school’s colours of white with blue edge trim. Puma spikes in hand, barefoot, he stepped on the track. Man, he was good for below fifty on this surface, win or lose, in the 440. A nervous shiver swept through him. In the middle, where the finish line was for all the track events, tables for the scorekeepers and entry recorders were being set up. According to his watch, it was twelve to ten. “Hey, Leslie,” David called him from the bleachers where the Niagara athletes were gathering, the girls with their high-pitched voices chattering, giggling, and the guys, some of them silent, a dazed look in their eyes. “Oh, come on guys, it’s only a track meet,” David was saying as Leslie came to the group. Sure, it was only a track meet, wish he could convince

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wiin imaa niibawi Leslie. David dash naawiya’ii izhi-naaniibawi, daabishkoo sa go moozhag gaa-nitaa-ayaad. Odikwezensiman gaye imaa owiijiiwigoon, Louise izhinikaazowan. Gaawiin wiin bimibatoosii. Weyiib odakonaan owiinimoshenzhan jibwaa-boozinid imaa basing. Bezhig gikino’amaagewinini gewiin imaa boozi, maamaw nisimidana-shiningodwaachiwag igi gaa-ando-gagwejikazhiwewaad. Leslie nitam boozi. Gegaa imaa niigaan izhi-onabi. Gakina dash igi oshkiniigiinsag ani-mooshkina’idiwag imaa basing. University of Waterloo dash izhaawag. Gewiin boozi David, gakina awiyan e-ganoonaad, e-baapid. Imaa izhi-onabi odaanaang imaa gaa-izhi-namadabid Leslie. Agwajiing dash owaabamaawaa’ godag gikino’amawaagana’ e-baabiibaaginid. Owaabamaan Caroline-an e-boozinid, ikwezensan e-bimiwiijiiwaad. Apane ani-gizhiibizo awe bas. Wiinge ani-ojaanimendam Leslie. Amii dash enendang ji-gii-gagwe-bizaan inendang. Caroline noongom bezhigoobi. Ambegish zhaagwenimosiwaan ji-awi-wiidabimag inendam Leslie. Zhaagwenimo dash. Amii gaa-izhigiizhendang ji-awi-wiidabimaad. E-wii-bazigwiid dash, wenji-bimosenid imaa bezhig oshkiniigiwan. O-made-ganoonaan Caroline-an. Made-onabi imaa, e-wiidabimaad ini ikwezensan. Amii gii-aadinamaagod. Amii sa gaaizhised gabe-dwaate gii-wii-ando-ganoonaad ako Caroline-an. Bizhishig ako imaa godag oshkaadiziig odoondami-ganoonaawaan. Gaawiin ako wiikaa gii-nishikegaabawisii Caroline. Gaawiin gaye obaabiziskenimigosiin. Amii sa indawaa gii-inendam. Owaabamaan dash e-made-gichi-baapinid. Amii iinzan gaawiin o-da-wiijiiwaasiin wiin, inendam. Wiinge sa minogiizhigan. Bangii giiwedinong ondaaniman. Ozhaawashkwaani gaa-bisikang bimibatoowayaan. Giibekichigaadeniiban. Amii imaa Leslie naniibawi gewiin gaadazhigaabawiwaad godag oshkiniigiinsag gaa-wii-gagwejikazhiwewaad godag gikino’amaadiiwigamigoon gaa-izhaawaad. Bebakaan izhinaagwaniniwan gaa-gigishkamowaad bimibatoowayaanan. Hamilton District wiin miskwaaniwan dago waabishkaaniwan. Eden dash makade-ozhaawashkwaaniwan dago makadewaaniwan. Great Lakes dash ozaawaaniwan dago ozhaawashkwaaniwan. Rockway dash miskoozhaawashkwaaniwan dago waabishkaaniwan. Wiin dash wiin gaa-izhaad gikino’amaadiiwigamigong waabishkaaniwan dago bangii ozhaawashkwaani.

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his body of that. All his nerves were alert and he was experiencing a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Les, here’s a schedule of the meet,” Mr. Adams said, handing him a sheet of paper. Leslie sat down on the bottom bench to examine the chart for his events. The 220 at ten-thirty, the half-mile at eleven-thirty, heats for the 440 at one and the mile at two-thirty. As the loud blare of an announcer came over the loudspeaker for the start of the meet, with junior boys’ 100 and senior girls’ broad jump, someone spoke to him, her soft tone making his already nervous body quiver. Caroline looked at him as she handed him the paperback. The roar and yelling of four hundred voices filled their ears, but for Leslie, it was as if it was another time, another crowd noise, that had nothing to do with him. “When is your high jump?” he queried. “How did you know?” Her eyes widened. “Secret sources.” “Oh, I see, not until twelve-thirty, and then I’m done.” The smile that made him feel like a tongue-tied bumbling backwoods boy was playing on her lips. He turned to look toward the track. A heat of intermediate boys was just over, the white and blue of Niagara a fading second. Hey, David should be running soon. He wanted to see and urge him on, so he stood up. He turned back to Caroline. “I want to go stand close to the track, David’s coming up soon, and do you...” He stopped for a second, “you want to come?” She was already standing, nimbly jumping down as the hope that had died in him resurrected. Both of them walked to the line of excited young competitors already standing on the sidelines. “Winners of the intermediate boys’ 100, in first place, from Eden Christian College...” the loudspeaker announced, “and next, the senior boys’ 100, all entries report...” As the gun went off Leslie and Caroline watched David, muscular form breaking out the blocks, knee action high, arms a blur of motion leading, leading to lunge first, breaking the string. There must have been only eight entries for the loudspeaker shortly announced the winners, David having won in a time of 10.0 seconds for 100 yards.

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Zhaashaaginizide, odakonaanan obimibatoowakizinan. Dakokii imaa gaa-wii-izhi-bimibatood. Wiinge jiikendam. O-da-gashkitoon ji-debinang naanimidana inendam owe 440. Ojaanimendamose. Imaa naawiya’ii, gaa-izhi-bagamibatoonaaniwang, atewan imaa aasamisag ge-ozhibii’igaadegin aaniin minik gaa-izhisenig gaabagamibatoowaad. Oganawaabamaan odiba’igiiziswaanensan. Midaashiniizho-diba’iganens jibwaa-midaaso izhiseg. “Hey Leslie!” odizhi-biibaagimigoon owiijiiwaaganan David-an, imaa gaa-dazhigaabawiwaad Niagara gaa-izhaawaad. Wiinge gichigaagiigidowag igi oshkiniigikwensag, e-gichi-baapiwaad gaye. Igi dash wiin oshkiniigiwag michi-naaniibawiwag. Gaawiin gaagiigidosiiwag. “Daga sa naa,” odinaa’ owiijiiwaagana’ David. “Gi-ga-michibimibatoomin, gaawiin gichi-gegoon iwe. Anishaa gi-gotaajim.” Wiinge sa gotaaji Leslie. “Amii owe wezhibii’igaadeg aaniin apii ge-bimibatooyeg,” ikido Mr. Adams gikino’amaagewinini. Onabi Leslie e-agindang iweni mazina’iigin. 220 gaa-izhibii’igaadenig midaaso-diba’iganeyaak aabita da-maajiseni. Aabita-diba’akaan dash midaashi-bezhig aabita izhisenig. 440 gaaizhibii’igaadenig bezhigo-diba’iganeyaanig, zhigo ango-diba’akaan niizho-diba’iganeyaak aabita. Made-baashkitaagozi gaa-waawiindamaaged aaniin ge-inakamigak. Aazha maajitaawag gwiiwizensag 100. Gaye ikwezensag gaa-wii-ginoo-gwaashkwaniwaad. Awiyan, ikwezensan wenjibi-ganoonigod imaa besho. Ogoshkomigoon. Caroline oganawaabamigoon e-miinigod mazina’igan. Wiinge gichiinitaagoziwag awiyag gaa-baabiibaagiwaad, ingoji go niiwaak dashiwag. Gaawiin dash daabishkoo e-noondawaasig ini gaa-gichi-initaagozinid. Amii eta ini oshkiniigikwen noondawaad. “Aanapii giin ge-gwaashkwaniyin,” odinaan. “Aan dash wenji-gikendaman?” odigoon. “Nin-giimooji-wiindamaagoo aaniish,” odinaan. “Ooh,” odigoon. “Baamaa midaashi-niizho-diba’iganeyaak aabita. Amii dash ge-izhi-giizhikamigiziyaan.” Zhawiingweniwan. Wiinge sa odagajiitawaan ini oshkiniigikwen. Indawaa wedi gaa-izhi-bimibatoonaaniwang inaabi. Aazha gii-ishkwaabimibatoowag ingodwewaan gwiiwizensag Niagara gaa-izhaawaad. Amii

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“David! Way to go,” Leslie shouted going to him as he was surrounded by members of the Niagara track team. “You’re doing alright,” David said, his breath still coming in gasps, as he winked at them. The announcement for the 220 for all boy entries was made. “Hope there’s more than one heat for each group,” continued David, getting up. “I need to get my strength back.” “Well, here goes,” Leslie sighed. “Good luck, again.” Caroline looked after him as Leslie went with David to report and go to the starting area, across the infield. The girls were still at the broad jump area, letting out a moan or clapping as each person’s length was measured. It was now 10:25. The juniors would be first, then the intermediates and then David and Leslie in the senior category. Leslie did his warm-up routine with David, bending, stretching. The firing of the gun set eight junior runners into frenzied motion, the crowd of high school watchers breaking out in a roar. Leslie didn’t see who won. David, who had gone to consult the entry recorder, came running back. “There’s only one heat each,” he said, even as the intermediates lined up. Same blur of exploding motion as Leslie watched, his throat dry. There was some quality in competition that always made him feel somehow like crying but... guess he would never understand that, he thought, as he slipped off his sweatsuit and put on his track shoes. On your mark. Get set. The gun fired as Leslie, in lane seven, tried to explode out of the blocks. He didn’t make it, and straining to keep ahead of the runners in two and three just before the top of the curve, he knew he was in trouble. Coming out of the curve into the straight toward the wire, Leslie tried to sustain his sprint but it was no use. A red and white figure passed him, then a white and blue, David? And he was passed by a purple-coloured form just at the finish. Stopping, his head down, hands on knees, he became aware of the yelling, laughing excitement of everyone. Two fellow students came to him saying it’s okay, giving him a towel. He wasn’t winded at all. If only…, he started to think, but his mind told him to forget it and wait for the next race. “Winner of the senior boys’ 220 yards, from Hamilton...” Leslie didn’t catch the name, “in second place, David Reamer, Niagara...” He looked

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aazha gegaa David ji-maajii-gagwejikazhiwed. O-wii-ganawaabamaan bimibatoonid. Bazigwii Leslie. Oganawaabamaan Caroline-an. “Jiigiya’ii imaa gaa-izhi-bimibatoowaad ni-wii-izhi-niibaw, aazha gegaa David da-bimibatoo. Gi-wii-biizhaa na?” odinaan. Amii aazha e-niibawinid e-maajii-gwaakwaashkwaninid. Wiinge jiikendamoog. Apane imaa ina’adoowag gaa-izhi-niibawiwaad godagiyag. “Igi gwiiwizensag gaa-gii-bakinaagewaad 100, awe nitam Eden Christian College gaa-onjiid...” ikido awe gaa-gizhiiwed. “Miinawaa dash gichi-gwiiwizensag 100, gakina bi-ozhigaabawig!” Apii gii-baashkiziged awe gaa-inwaazod iwe, aazha imaa Leslie gaye Caroline oganawaabamaawaan David-an e-maajiibatoonid. Wiinge mamaziniiwagiiwan ayishpigidigwebatoowan indigo, biigizawinaagwaniniwan gaye onikan epiichi-gizhiibatood. Wiin niigaanibatoo, wiin o-gii-bakishkaan iweni zhinoodaagan gaabakishkigaadeg gii-niigaanibatoong. Gii-michi-nishwaachiwag gaabimibatoowaad. David dash gii-bakinaage, 10 daso-diba’iganensens 100 ningodwaak daso-gichi-mizid. “David! Onizhishin!” odinaan e-naanzikawaad owiijiiwaaganan. Wiinge aazha imaa baatiinowa’ gaa-bi-ando-waabamigod David, Niagara gaa-izhaanid. “Gi-minochige gegiin,” odigoon owiijiiwaaganan, e-zhiiwaabibani’onid. Aazha andomaawag igi 220 gaa-wii-bimibatoowaad gwiiwizensag. “Ambegish awiyag giiyaabi bimibatoowaad. Gaawiin ozaam zhemaak miinawaa ni-wii-bimibatoosii. Akawe ni-wii-anweshin. Ozaam nin-gajaagii.” “Haaw, aazha,” ikido Leslie. Aanzanaamo. “Haaw, ambesh bakinaageyin,” odigoon Caroline-an. Apane Leslie majii’adoo e-ando-biindigebii’odizod, David-an owiijiiwaan. Apane dash miinawaa wedi ge-onji-maajiibatood izhaa. Giiyaabi ikwezensag ayaawag imaa gaa-izhi-ginoo-gwaashkwaniwaad. Wiinge gichi-inwekaazowag gii-ishkwaa-gwaashkwaniwaad, e-diba’akaadenig aaniin gaa-ako-gwaashkwaniwaad. Amii aazha niishtana-shi-naano-diba’iganens ishkwaa-midaaso e-izhiseg. Nitam gaaagaashiinzhiwaad gwiiwizensag, miinawaa dash gaa-ani-zaziikiziwaad.

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around, saw David being mobbed by a small group of girls and guys, didn’t see Caroline. Nobody loves a loser, he grinned in spite of himself, as he went to find his coach and talk about the upcoming 880. Everywhere, girls in scanty track wear, guys in groups, all were in a state of charged-up enthusiasm. The loudspeaker would announce the winners of the junior boys’ broad jump, or the senior boys’ discus, as Leslie sat high on the bleachers trying to concentrate on what the coach had told him. Thoughts of trying to find Caroline entered his mind but he knew being with her would distract him. She wouldn’t do or say anything to do it, but he knew he couldn’t help himself. I wonder if she cares when I didn’t even...Leslie shook his head; what a time to get strung out over a girl. The girls were now being run off in the 50- and 100yard sprints. Dimly, he heard the roars from the throats of the teachers, coaches and teammates of the competing girls. “Last call for entries in the senior girls’ 100 yards; next will be, the senior boys’ 880.” His heart starting to quicken in its rhythm, Leslie descended the steps of the stands, watching the girls sprint, hair flying, thighs flashing whitely. A gold-and-green-clad blonde almost fell, then passed first across the finish line, her momentum carrying her to the outstretched hands of her schoolmates. In concentration, again, the background and people started to fade. Vaguely, as from a distance he thought someone called his name, but he didn’t stop as he went to the starting area, same as the ending, in front of the stands. David came out of the crowd, said something to him that he didn’t make out as he again heard his name, this time called by the entry keeper. His heart pounding, his leg muscles feeling tense, he counted the rest of the competitors. God, look at the muscles on that guy, he thought, finishing his count. Twelve. There were no staggered lanes. The dull shouts of, let’s go, go man, seemed as if from far, far away. Hurry up, stupid starter. The gun. Runners jerked into motion as he hesitated for a split second. That was enough to put him last going into the first curve of 100 yards. Once running, his nervousness disappeared. Now, he was relaxed. The guy in the lead, “muscles,” ran head bobbing down the back straight,

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Ishkwaawaach dash gaa-zaziikiziwaad gwiiwizensag. Amii imaa David gaye Leslie ezhi-dibendaagoziwaad. Akawe zhaazhiibiigitaawag igi gwiiwizensag gaa-wii-gagwejikazhiwewaad. Apane e-noondamowaad baashkizigan maajiibatoowag igi gaa-agaashiinzhiwaad gwiiwizensag. Wiinge gichibaabiibaagiwag awiyag. Gaawiin Leslie gii-gikenjigesii awenenan gaa-bakinaagenid. David gii-ando-gikenjige aaniin enakamiganinig. Aabiding eta bimibatoowag ikido. Aazha igi nawach gaa-ani-zaziikiziwaad gwiiwizensag niibidegaabawiwag, e-ashogaabawiwaad. Apane miinawaa maajiibatoowag. Ganawaabi Leslie. Gegoon inamanji’o. Amii ko bizhishig enamanji’od gii-gagwejikazhiwenaaniwaninig. Daabishkoo e-wii-mawid. Gaawiin maawiin wiikaa o-daa-gikendanziin wegonen iwe wenjiinamanji’od ako. Aazha ogiichigowebishkaan gaa-bisikang. Obisikaanan gaye omakizinan. “Haaw, ashogaabawig! Haaw sa.” Apane onoondaan baashkizigan. Apane Leslie enigok aana-gagwe-maajiibatoo. Gaawiin dash o-giigashkitoosiin. Niizhiwa’ biinish nisiwa’ niigaan aazha gaa-bimibatoonid. Wiin dash odaanaang. Ishehay. Epi-waaninibatood, aana-gagwegizhiibatoo, gaawiin dash. Awiyan o-bimi-gabikaagoon, ganage David ini? Bezhig miinawaa gaa-misko-ozhaawashkokonayenid ogabikaagoon gegaa e-oditang ge-izhi-gibichiid. Apane gii-gibichiid, dabasikwetaa. Ogidigoo’ dash ozaaminaa’. Onoondawaa’ awiya’ e-baabiibaaginid, e-baapinid. Niizhin o-wiiji-gikino’amawaagana’ o-bi-miinigoo’ giziingwaan. “Bizaanigo,” eta odigoo’. Gaawiin naa ayekonaamosii. Amii dash eta, enendang ji-ozhiitaad miinawaa aaniish giiyaabi da-gagwejikazhiwe. “Gaa-gii-bakinaaged, gichi-gwiiwizensag 220 minik, Hamilton...” gaawiin onoondaziin iwe wiinzowin Leslie, owe eta, “miinawaa dash David Reamer, Niagara...” Ayinaabi. Owaabamaan owiijiiwaaganan e-mademanibinigod ikwezensa’ gaye gwiiwizensa’. Gaawiin o-waabamaasiin Caroline-an. Gaawiin niin nim-baabiziskenimigoosii gaawiin aaniish niin nin-gii-bakinaagesii, inendam. Apane onandonewaan gikino’amaagewininiwan e-wii-dazhindang iweni 880. Miziwe niibawiwag ikwezensag odaasensiwaa’ e-gigishkawaawaad. Gwiiwizensag gaye, wiinge e-gichi-gaagiigidowaad. Aazha gegaa gaawiindamaaged da-ikido awenenag miinawaa gaa-gii-bakinaagewaad. Imaa gaa-ishpaagin desabiwanan izhi-namadabi Leslie, e-gagwe-minjimendang

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into the 330 curve as Leslie began to move. Down the home stretch, for the first time, the crowd in his subconscious edge standing, roared as “muscles” began to wobble in his strides. Past the finish line for the first time. Leslie was now fifth. Slowly, oh, so slowly, going around the 550 curve, having passed “muscles,” coming on smoothly out of the bend, two guys in front. Legs striding with ease now, his breath fast, steady with his heart, he took the lead into the final 80 yards, and heard as if from a vast distance, the crowd, as he kicked, gaining speed to the wire. “That was fantastic!” David hugging him, girls from his school helping to steady him. He felt fine, silly, with all the attention as he heard the crescendo of noise from the spectators. “...a new record, from Niagara in the senior boys 880, Leslie Black, with a time of 1:54.7 seconds...” Mr. Adams came to him, a fresh towel in his hand, which he gave to Leslie, shaking his hand and beaming. Caroline. He saw her among the laughing girls and boys. She didn’t come over, but waved briefly. What now, he thought, as the next group of boys were sent racing with the crack of the gun. Feeling he had to go, he went out, disregarding the calls of victory from other students. Where was that washroom anyway? Coming out later he looked at his watch, almost twelve-thirty. Caroline’s event would be coming as soon as the announcer finished telling the winners of the intermediate girls’ 440. He went over to watch the high jump, only because of Caroline. She saw him and turned her head away, so he stayed at a distance, sitting in the infield. Her turn came up; he saw her, biting her lower lip, frowning in concentration. She made her approach, kicked up, and cleared the bar in one smooth, hair-flying, body motion. He felt the lump of emotion knot his throat as she smilingly jumped out of the foam pit. He got up and started to turn away when Caroline waved and smiled. Inside now, underneath the bleachers on his way to the far end of the track, he heard David talking in the seats above him. “...did you see his strides, long, flowing, and wind, that’s why he was running his legs off while you guys sat around with your sweeties on your fat...”

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gaa-gii-izhi-wiindamaagod gikino’amaagewininiwan. Dibi eyaagwen Caroline inendam. Gaawiin dash inendanzii ji-gagwe-mikawaad. Giishpin wiidabimaad o-daa-wanashkwe’igoon inendam. Wiin igo iwe daa-wanashkwe’idizo inendam. Ganage ogikendaan gaa-inendamowag, inendam. Ishe gaawiin noongom o-daa-maajii-naanaagadawenimaasiin ikwezensan. Aazha miinawaa ikwezensag made-gagwejikazhiwewag, 50 zhigo 100. Onoondawaa’ e-gichi-baabiibaaginid gikino’amaagewininiwag gaye gaa-wiiji’iwewaad gaye ikwezensag. “Haaw, gakina ikwezensag gaa-wii-gagwejikazhiwewaad 100,” izhibiibaagi awe gaa-wiindamaaged. “Miinawaa dash gichi-gwiiwizensag 880!” Wiinge ani-gizhiibideni ode’ Leslie e-niisaandawed imaa gaa-gii-izhinamadabipan. Owaabamaa’ ikwezensa’ e-bimibatoonid, owiinizisiwaan e-bimaasininigin, e-waasaakobwaamebatoowaad. Bezhig ikwezens e-ozhaawashko- gaye ozaawikokonayed e-ozaawaanizised gegaa bimi-bangishin e-nitami-bagamibatood. Gegaa go ogaachidinigoo’ owiijiiwaagana’. Gaawiin gegoon bakaan o-gagwe-naanaagadawendaziin. Gaawiin onoondawaasii’ gaa-naaniibawinid imaa. Amii eta ezhi-minjimendang gaa-wii-bimibatood. Nindigo awiyan onoondawaan e-andomigod, gaawiin dash gibichiisii. Amii eta wedi ezhi-gikendang ji-izhaad gaa-izhiniibidegaabawinaaniwang. David bi-niminaawegaabawi. Gegoon odigoon gaawiin dash onoondawaasiin. Aazha miinawaa onoondaan owiinzowin. Gaa-wiinjiged awe gaa-ganoonigod. Wiinge gichi-bapanga’onini ode’ e-niibawid imaa. Odagimaa’ imaa gaa-niibidegaabawinid. Midaashiniizhin. Indigo waasa igi gaa-noondaagoziwaad inendam. Ambegish weyiib. Baashkizigan. Zhemaak gaa-okawisewaad gaa-wii-bimibatoowaad. Aapiji ajina gii-gibichise. Amii iwe gaa-gii-onji-nagajiba’ind bangii. Wiin ishkwaawaach bimi-waaninibatoo. Apane dash gaa-maajii-bimibatood, gaawiin aapiji gii-ojaanimendazii. Bizaanigo weweni bimibatoo. Gaaniigaanibatood, owaabamaan, aazha 330 bimi-ayaawag. Ezhi-maajiigizhiibatood Leslie. Amii aazha e-debinaagwag ge-izhi-bagamibatoowaad. Gichi-noondaagoziwag gaa-ganawaabiwaad, aaniish aazha gaawiin gisikawibatoosii awe gaa-niigaanibatoopan. Aazha naanan odaanaang ayaa Leslie. 550 e-bimi-waaninibatood, ogapikawaan ini niigaan gaa-

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“...how tall is he, and how much does he weigh?” a strange voice. “About 160 lbs. and he’s about two inches taller than me and I’m five ten...” He realized they were talking about him and he felt happy, resolving to do his best in the races he had left. He was given lane one in the first and only heat of the 440. Random thoughts filled his mind. Did Caroline win? How did Mr. Adams say to run this race? With all his might and strength? He meant, go out there and run like hell. This thought made him relax a bit, but still... running in lanes, in this one. Watch “muscles.” This was supposed to be his best race. His thighs cramping up, he bent down. Stood up and saw competition in the infield, girls shot-put, boys pole-vault. And always, the people standing, sitting, watching, in the bright sunlight. Eight guys in this one. The guy to his right looked at him, intimidated? He remembered. Going for below fifty. On your mark. Get set. Go. Bursting, exploding out of the blocks, he went in frenzied kneehigh smooth-flowing motion, ran curving around the first bend toward the 220 mark. “Muscles” breathing hard in blurred scarlet uniform, huge, striding, passed him going into the 330 curve, not much in front. Sustaining his knee action, he ran, heart thundering, out of the final agonizing turn, no one at his gasping right eye, and for one eternityseeming moment blacking out with 70 yards to do. Then as if in a dream, he floated with accelerating driving strides to the wire, first, victor, to hear the crazy hoarse volumes of the waving, jumping crowd. “...another record by Leslie Black, representing Niagara, in the senior boys’ 440, a time of 48.7 seconds.” Gasping, Leslie this time let the guys from Niagara support him even as the girls, laughing, some even crying, gathered around. Wonder if they would do this if I came in fourth, he thought, knowing the answer. Damn, he said, inwardly, I’m not running for you or the school. I’m running for my very identity, and my heart, leave me alone, yet his ego liking the idolization.

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bimibatoonipan. Niizhiwag noongom niigaan. Ogabikawaa’. Amii aazha gegaa e-giizhitood, ani-niigaanii. Amii sa gii-bakinaaged. “Aapiji onizhishin!” odigoon owiijiiwaaganan David ogikinjijiinigoon, gaye igi ikwezensag oziidinigoo’. Wiinge jiikimanji’o, onoondawaa’ gaagichi-inwenid awiya’. “Amii noongom maawach e-gii-gizhiibatood, Niagara gaa-izhaad, gichi-gwiiwizensag, 880 Leslie Black, 1:54.7 diba’iganensens.” Mr. Adams o-bi-miinigoon oshki-giziingwaanan. Ozagininjiinigoon wiinge gichi-zhawiingweniwan. Caroline. Owaabamaan e-made-niibawinid godag oshkaadizii’ o-madewiijigaabawitawaa’. Gaawiin biizhaasii, michi-waatinige. Aaniin dash naa, inendam. Aazha miinawaa ingodwewaan gwiiwizensag maajiibatoowag, e-gagwejikazhiwewaad. Indawaa inendam ji-maajaad. Onoondawaa’ eta e-biibaaginid awiya’. Aandi iwe miiziiwigamig? inendam. Gii-bi-zaaga’ang, owaabandaan aazha ingwana gegaa midaashi-niizho-diba’iganeyaa. Amii aazha Caroline ji-maajisenig. Made-wiindamaage inini awenen gaa-giiishkwaa-bakinaaged 440. Apane wedi izhaa gaa-izhi-ishpi-gwaashkwaniwaad, Caroline-an eta gaaonji-izhaad. Owaabamigoon, apane ingoji ezhi-inaabisenid. Gaawiin besho imaa izhaasii. Owaabamaan e-ziindendamonid. Apane ishpi-gwaashkwani. Wiinge sa o-gichi-inenimaan. Zhawiingweni Caroline gii-onjigijibani’od imaa gaa-gii-izhi-gwaashkwanid. Ani-maajaa dash Leslie giiwaabamaad Caroline-an e-waata’amaagod, e-zhawiingweninid. Biindig noongom, niisiya’iing niibawi Leslie. Onoondawaan owiijiiwaaganan David-an e-gaagiigidonid ishpiya’iing imaa. “Gi-gii-waabamaa na gaa-gii-apiichi-ginwaakogaadebatood? Giinawaa dash wiin... “Aan ekoozid? Aan epiitinigonid?” izhi-gagwedwe awiya. Gaawiin onisidotawaasiin awegwenan ini. “Ngoji go ningodwaak ningodwaasomidana daso-dibaabiishkoojigan, ngoji go ningodwaasomizid akoozi.” Niin gaa-dazhimiwaad, inendam. Minwendam. Wiinge nawach wiigagwe-gizhiibatoo miinawaa bimibatood. Aazha ozhigaabawi ji-bimibatood miinawaa 440 minik. Naanaagadawendam. Ganage gii-bakinaage Caroline? Aaniin itagiin

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With the noise of the still excited crowd of four hundred people at the interschool meet sounding in his ears, Leslie went out the exit in the wire mesh fence that surrounded the track area at the University of Waterloo. He had about three-quarters of an hour before his final race, the mile. He was just past the opening when a voice he recognized instantly called his name. “Leslie, wait.” He turned, wiping the sweat off his brow, hands trembling. “Are you going to the bus?” He nodded. “For something to drink. How did you do in the high jump?” “Second,” she grimaced. “I kept brushing the bar with my, you know,” she touched her rounded rear, “at five three.” “Five three, why that’s good.” “I suppose; I wanted to win but it was only a way to get a day off school and to see how...” she blushed. “Well, let’s see about getting something to eat.” Leslie, confident because of his success, felt more relaxed and at ease. The parking area of the University was filled with cars, and the five buses of the competing teams. Heat waves shimmered off the metal of the vehicles as Leslie and Caroline threaded their way to the hired Greyhound. Inside, in seats across from each other, she munched on cheese and lettuce sandwiches, while Leslie sipped on an orange drink, thinking on what David had said about Caroline. Maybe being stuck-up was just a characteristic of hers; perhaps her natural tendency was to be reserved. She did have big, blue eyes, eyes that would never fail to impress him even if he never saw her again after this year. In June, he would have to return to the northern part of Ontario where his pride and will had been shaped. “Eden is way out in front in team points,” Caroline said. “Oh, really!” Leslie didn’t care too much, because no one besides two other guys and maybe six girls from their school had taken a serious interest in training for the track meet.

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gaa-ikidod Mr. Adams ge-izhichiged ji-izhi-gagwejikazhiwed? Enigok ji-bimibatood? Eya, enigok wedi bimibatookan! Nawach bangii ezhina’endang. Ganawaabam awe gaa-mamaziniiwagiid. Amii ji-gizhiibatood noongom. Maajii-ojibinigogaade. Niibawi. Owaabamaa’ ini godag gegagwejikanigod. Ikwezensag miinawaa made-apagijigewag. Gwiiwizensag made-gwaashkwaniwag. Bizhishig dash awiyag niibawiwag, namadabiwag, ganawaabiwag imaa e-aakwaateg. Nishwaachiwag gwiiwizensag omaa. Bezhig oganawaabamigoon. Ganage ogosigoon? Amii ezhi-minjimendang ji-gagwe-debinang dabazhiish naanimidana. “Haaw, ozhigaabawig, haaw,..” Paah! inwe baashkizigan. Apane miinawaa maajiibatoo. Wiinge sa gagwaanisagibatoo, biinish imaa ani-waaninibatoo 220 gaa-izhibii’igaadenig. Awe gaamamaziniiwagitaad gichi-babaapagidanaamo, e-miskwaanig gaagigishkang. Ezhi-gabikawaad 330 gii-ani-izhisenig. Wiinge giiyaabi biisigaadebatoo. Ode’ gichi-bapanga’onini. Amii dash ishkwaawaach, ji-bagamibatood. Gaawiin awiyan owaabamaasiin ji-adimigod. Indigo aapiji ginwesh inendaagwan jibwaa-oditang iweni gaa-bimaabiigamoninig ji-bakishkang. Daabishkoo e-inaabandang inamanji’o e-bimi-bakinaaged. Onoondawaa’ wiinge e-gichi-gizhiiwenid awiya’, e-biibaagimigod giibakinaaged. “Miinawaa bakinaage Leslie Black, Niagara gaa-izhaad, gichigwiiwizensag, 440 minik, 48.7 daso-diba’iganensens.” Wiinge gichi-ayikonaamo Leslie. Maanoo obagidinaa’ ji-ziidonigod owiiji-gwiiwizensima’, gaye ikwezensa’ imaa waakaagaabawiwa’ aaninda gegaa e-mawinid, epiichi-jiikendamonid. Ganage owe daa-gii-izhichigewag giishpin niiwing izhi-bagamisewaambaanen, inendam. Ogikendaan dash. Ishe, inendam. Gaawiin giinawaa gaa-onji-bimibatoowaan, gaawiin gaye gikino’amaadiiwigamig gaa-onji-bimibatoowaan. Niin gosha gaaonji-bimibatoowaan, niin ji-onji-jiikendamaan e-gii-gashkitoowaan. Niin. Zhaagooch dash ominwendaan e-gichi-inenimigod owiijigikino’amawaagana’. Giiyaabi onoondawaa’ e-gichi-inwewidaminid gikino’amawaagana’. Indawaa zaaga’am Leslie opimeya’iing imaa biiwaabiko-meniganaakong. Giiyaabi niimidana-shi-naano-diba’iganens jibwaa-gagwejikazhiwed miinawaa. Gegaa zhaaboshkaa gii-noondawaad awiyan e-ganoonigod.

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“We’re just ahead of Rockway and that’s mainly because of you and David, and Vicki, Dianne and Marie,” she said. “Uh huh,” Leslie replied, his mind telling him to go ahead and ask her to be his date for the Grades 12 and 13 banquet next weekend. She’s probably got a date already, he thought, on the other hand she can only say no. She was prattling on when Leslie made up his mind. “Caroline, I would like, a, you know the banquet next weekend...’ “Yes, what about it?” Her eyes were wide, she wasn’t making it easy. “Would you be my date?” There; he said it, his heart beating fast. “Why, Leslie, I thought you didn’t like me, I mean, you don’t hate me or anything, but Louise said you told David you didn’t care for...” “Caroline, from last April, I thought that you were the best...” What was the matter with him? If he wasn’t careful, he’d be asking her to marry him or some crazy thing like that. “You thought I was the best... what?”’ She was slightly flushed, her breath quivering. “Oh, I don’t know... I mean, I really liked you, but I didn’t want to approach you, because, well, I’m well, different than you.” “Leslie Black, from what I’ve heard of you in class, in the dorm, or even talking to you in person, the only difference is that you could be taken for a dark Italian.” “Well —” He had no more statements, an orator he was not. “Tell me, do you like me now?” “Yes.” The next thing he knew, he was holding Caroline, her head on his chest. They were standing in the aisle of the bus, saying words neither of them really heard but knowing what each other meant, when the door was thrust open. David’s smiling face looked up at them. “Ah, ah, I knew this would happen. But no time for that now, come on Romeo, it’s almost time for the mile.” He ran off. “Leslie...” in a soft voice — he expected an endearing sentence or words — “you smell,” and she broke into a giggle. “You nut,” he said. Her hand in his, he pulled her along, past the maze of car spaces. Panting, they arrived at the stadium. Mr. Adams urgently

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“Leslie! Bii’ishin!” Gwekitaa, o-gizii’aan odabwezowin oskatigong. Niningininjiishkaa. “Basing na gidizhaa?” Naanaamikweni Leslie. “Gegoon ni-wii-minikwe. Aaniin gaa-ayizhiiyin gii-gwaashkwaniyin?” “Gaawiin nin-gii-bakinaagesii.” Gaawiingwetaa. “Nin-gii-nibaajizaamishkaan gaa-aazhawaakosing mitig. Ozaam ni-mangidiye. Naanan nisin nin-gii-akoshkaa.” “Naanan nisin. Onizhishin sa wiin igo.” “Amii maawiin. Nin-gii-andawendaan ji-bakinaageyaan. Zhaagooch dash wiin igo nin-gii-bagidinigoo ji-biizhaayaan geniin omaa, ji-biwaabam...” ezhi-miskwiingwesed. “Haaw sa, ando-wiisinidaa.” Wiinge jiikendam Leslie. Gii-bakinaage aaniish gaa-onji-minwendang, gaa-onji-zoongenimod. Gaa-izhi-abinid bas gaa-gii-izhi-booziwaad izhaawag. Wiinge baatiinowag imaa odaabaanensag. Amii gaye imaa ebiwaad igi basag gaa-gii-izhi-booziwaad gikino’amawaaganag. Biindigewag gaa-giiizhi-booziwaad. Amii imaa gaa-izhi-wiisinid Caroline, naboniganan odamwaan. Wiin wiin Leslie gii-michi-minikwe ozaawijiiminaabo. Oganawaabamaan gaa-wiidabimaad. Gaawiin ako nin-zaabenimigosii, odinenimaan. Indigo memindage naa ozhaawashkwaaniwan oshkiinzhigoon awedi ikwezens. Maagizhaa gaawiin miinawaa o-dawaabamaasiin ishkwaa-gikino’amawind Leslie, aaniish naa da-giiwe wedi giiwedinong gaa-onjiid. “Eden niigaaniiwag,” ikido Caroline. “Gidinendam na?” odinaan Leslie. Gaawiin aapiji gegoon inendanzii wiin Leslie. Gii-michi-niizhiwag gwiiwizensag dago ningodwaaso ikwezensag gaa-gii-gojitoowaad ji-gagwejikazhiwewaad imaa ogikino’amaadiiwigamigowaang gaa-onjiiwaad. “Rockway gi-gii-bakinawaanaanig, giin iya’aa dash David gaa-onjiniigaaniiying, gaye ikwezensag Vicky, Dianne, Marie dash.” “Eya,” odinaan. Odoondami-naanaagadawendaan bakaan gegoon. Gagwe-inendam ji-gagwejimaad ji-wiijiiwigod oko-wiisininaaniwang apii giizhitoowaad ogikino’amaagoowiniwaa igi gikino’amaawaaganag 12

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beckoned. Leslie turned to Caroline, her eyes shone. He turned away and heard her cry as he ran to the starting area, “Oh! I’ll go with you to the... banquet.” “...open mile for boys in a few minutes,” the loudspeaker called. “We understand that Leslie Black is going for the record which has stood since 1967: 4 minutes, 38 seconds. For Leslie and the rest, we wish the best...” The crowd drowned out the rest as it gave forth a gigantic bellow that made Leslie tingle, shiver as he did a few quick exercises. Niagara girls had formed a cheerleaders’ squad, yelling his name. Once more, the fading of all noises in his mind, stepping out of his blue suit, his concentration returned. Leslie looked the competition over. No one he hadn’t raced before. A confidence swelled in his will to run the best possible race. Win or lose, it didn’t matter. This was the moment he had prepared for since last September, no, since that first time he had run in the summer race of courage and stamina around the island home of his boyhood. This wasn’t a race for a scarlet ribbon or some record that would be broken again and again. It wasn’t and had never been intended to win someone’s love; Caroline’s friendship, he could have known and shared earlier had he not been so selfishly down on himself. No, this was a race for his very identity, not just as an Ojibway, but for his identity in knowing that he had run with all his will to do nothing less than his very best. No matter where he went or lived, regardless of what he turned out to be, he would be able to say, I was tried, I was weighed in the balance of effort and desire, and I was not found wanting. These thoughts went through Leslie’s mind as the hushed crowd waited, lingered its massed breath for the gun; nerves still, Leslie stood poised as the gun sounded. Leslie burst out, around the curve, getting the lead. Running, bronze legs flashing, arms pumping evenly with his strides, while the rest of the runners began to straggle behind him. Breath coming in rhythmic spurts, Leslie seemed to run so effortlessly through the first 440, barely hearing the standing up yelling crowd, the announcer: “...the first lap in 69.2 seconds.”

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gaye 13 gaa-akoshkaawaad. Aazha gii-gagwejimaaganiwidog inendam. Bizaanigo gaawiin izhid, inendam. Aazha gii-giizhendam ji-gagwejimaad. “Caroline, gi-gikendaan na iwe gaa-wii-wiisining ge-dwaateg...” “Eya, wegonen?” O-gichi-ganawaabamigoon. Wiinge zanagendam Leslie. “Gii-daa-wiijiiw na izhaayaan?” Wiinge sa gizhiiseni ode’. “Gaawiin gi-zaagi’ishisii nin-gii-inendam. Amii gaa-ikidod Louise, e-gii-inad David gaawiin iinzan gi..” “Caroline, apii ishkwaawaach niki-giizis, wiinge gi-gichi-inenimin...” wiinge naa gaawiin ogashkitoosiin weweni ji-gaagiigidod. Amii go biinish ji-ani-gagwejimaad ji-wiidigemigod, epiichi-giiwashkweyendang noongom. “Wegonen gaa-idaman?” odigoon ini ikwezensan. Bangii miskwiingwewan. “Gaawiin nin-gikendanziin. Gi-zaagi’in. Gaawiin dash nin-gii-ikidosii gegoon, ozaam aaniish bakaan gidoonjiimin. Bakaan niin nindizhi-ayaa...” “Leslie Black, gaawiin ako gegoon ni-noondaziin ji-igooyin. Amii eta ezhi-noondamaan nindigo nawach gaa-nichigiziwaad Italian gaadinowiwaad gidizhinaagoz.” “Ooh,” amii sa gaawiin gegoon giiyaabi ogikendanziin ji-ikidod Leslie. Wiinge gwenawi-ikido. “Wiindamawishin, gi-zaagi’ish na noongom?” “Eya.” Amii wenji-gikendang e-dakonaad ini ikwezensan. Gaganoonidiwag gaawiin dash igo ogikendaziin Leslie wegonen gaa-ikidowaagwen iwe apii. Wenji-biindiged basing awiya. David imaa o-ganawaabamigowaan. Gichi-zhawiingweni. “Aah, nin-gii-gikendaan owe ji-izhiseg. Haaw Romeo, amii aazha jibimibatooyin.” Apane maajiibatoo David. “Leslie,” odigoon ikwezensan. Gichi-gegoon o-da-wiindamaagoon inendam Leslie. “Wiinge gi-maanzhimaagoz.” Ezhi-baapid Caroline. Wawiiyadendam. “Gi-gagiibaadiz,” odinaan Leslie. Apane ani-niizhoobatoowag gedazhi-gagwejikazhiwed Leslie. Aazha made-waata’ige Mr. Adams, weyiib ji-biizhaad Leslie. Oganawaabamaan ikwezensan Leslie. O-minoganawaabamigoon. Apane ani-gwegitaa Leslie. Ondoonji-biibaagimigoon ini ikwezensan.

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Turning, his strides seeming golden in the afternoon sun, no one even close behind him in his glance backward, his lungs now starting to burn, a pulsing, loud in his brain, that one was for you, people of my home; on and on, now straining in body but not in will, flashes of memory, sixteen, running up a 60-foot-high sand hill, now rushing through the cheering mob, hearing, “880 yards in 2:16.5 seconds...” Thinking, that one was for you, Mom, Dad, his legs beginning to feel like rubber, looking back, a red jersey, 20–30 yards, turning into the final bend of the three-quarter-mile stretch, body crying, stop, stop, but no, his will pushing, sweat in his eyes, smoothly still before the mouth-open roar of humanity, the loudspeaker, his inspiration, “...the last lap coming, time, 3:29.2...chance for the record...” Oh, God, the pain, that one for you, Niagara, can I stop? No, his breaths were coming as fiery, choked intakes, expulsions of air, but with all his will, hands pumping as hard, kicking, reaching smoothly yet his spikes biting the ground, golden down the backstretch and then a blackout and flowing as if in slow motion in his mind, but sprinting, Leslie came on to the finish line, his soul exulting as he crossed. “A new record, Leslie Black, the last lap in 56.4 seconds, a time of 4 minutes and 25.3 seconds; second...” The rest was lost as over four hundred voices shouted and cheered.

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“Eya, gi-ga-wiijiiwin wiisininaaniwang!” “Amii aazha gegaa ji-maajii-gagwejikazhiwewaad gichi-gwiiwizensag,” made-ikido gaa-waawiindamaaged ge-inakamiganinig. “Apane ishkwaawaach 1967 gii-izhiseg gaa-gii-bakinaadangiban awiya, 4 diba’iganens 38 diba’iganensens dash ishkwaawaach. Leslie Black o-da-gagwe-bakinaadaan iweni, nindinitaan. Leslie, gaye gakina giinawaa, ambegish bakinaageyeg!” Wiinge gichi-noondaagoziwag gaa-ganawaabiwaad e-baabiibaagiwaad. Gaye igi ikwezensag gaa-niimibiibaagiwaad Niagara gaa-onjiiwaad, o-gichi-biibaagimigoo’ owiinzowin. Aazha ani-bagakendam, gaawiin gegoon o-bagidinaziin ji-wanashkwe’igod, obimibatoowin eta ominjimendaan. O-ganawaabamaa’ gaa-wiigagwejikanaad. Gakina onisidawinawaa’. Gaawiin o-gosaasii’. Wiinge jiikendam. Bizaanigo bakinaageyaan, bakinaagoowaan, gaawiin gegoon nin-ga-inendanziin, inendam. Amii owe gaa-gii-onji-nitaa-gagwejiid, apane ishkwaawaach manoomini-giizis gii-bimangizod. Gaawiin apane gii-niibininig giinitaa-bimibatoopan ishkoniganing gaa-onjiid. Gaawiin wiin zenibaan ji-bakinaaged gaa-onji-bimibatood. Gaawiin gaye ikwezensan ji-onjizaagi’igod. Bizaanigo wiin iwe aaniin apii go o-daa-ayaan. Wiin igo ji-na’enindizod gaa-onji-bimibatood. Gaawiin wiin ji-waabanda’iwed e-nitaa-gizhiibatood gii-anishinaabewid gaa-onji-bimibatood. Wiin igo jigikendang maawach epiichi-gashkitood ji-gizhiibatood wenji-bimibatood. Apii onji-maajaad omaa, aaniindi go izhaad, aaniin igo izhi-bimaadizid, amii ge-izhi-gikendang, nin-gii-gagweji’igoo, ganage ji-gashkitoowaanen iwe gaa-izhi-andawendamaan gaye iwe gaa-izhi-gagwe-debinamaan. Ninga-debinaan idash. Amii owe e-naanaagadawendang Leslie e-ozhigaabawid, e-andotang iweni baashkizigan. Gii-madwewenig gii-maajiibatoo. Wiin niigaanibatoo giiwaaninibatood nitam. Wiinge enigok bimibatoo, amii eta iwe enendang. Aazha onaganaa’ godag gaa-bimibatoonid gwiiwizensa’. Weweni babaapagidanaamo. Nitam iwe 440 gii-oditang, gaawiin nawaach onoondawaasiin ini gaa-waawiindamaagenid. “Nitam e-gizhibaabatood 69.2 diba’iganensens.

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E-ani-gwekiid wiinge nindigo gii-ozaawibatoo inendam epiichi-gichi-gizhaateg gaye. Gaawiin nawaach besho odaanaang awiyan bimibatoosiiwan e-aabanaabibani’od. Aazha ani-dewipane. Bapangamanji’o gaye otigwaaning. Giinawaa wiin owe, nindishkonigan gaa-onjiiyaan! inendam. Omikwendaan gaa-gii-nitaa-bimibatood ako naanew gii-ziigwaninig apane e-ishpibatood giishkadaawangaang ningodwaasomizid e-apiichaanig. Onoondawaa’ e-baabiibaaginid awiya’. “880 gichi-mizid 2:16.5 diba’iganensens...” Giin wiin owe nimaamaa, nindede, inendam. Anininingigaademanji’o. E-aabanaabibani’od owaabamaan e-miskokonayenid awiyan ingojigo 20 – 30 daso gichi-mizid odaanaang e-biijibatoonid. Wiinge owiiyaw wiisagendam, wii-gibichiimaganini. Gaawiin dash inendanzii ji-gibichiid. Wiinge wiisagaakizo oshkiinzhigong e-biindaabaawenig odabwezowin. Giiyaabi gizhiibatoo. Amii eta e-noondawaad ini gaa-wiindamaagenid. Amii eta iwe gechiwinigod jigizhiibatood. “Amii aazha gegaa, giiyaabi eta bezhig, 3:29.2 gegaa ganabach dabakinaade iwe...” Isheditawe, ni-wiisagendam. Giin owe Niagara. Ganage nin-daagibichii? Gaawiin. Indigo ishkode imaa opaning inamanji’o. Giiyaabi dash zhiibendam ji-bimibatood. Oninjiin enigok gashkaakoninjiitaa. Miinawaa makadewinam. Apane gegapii imaa gii-bagamibatoo e-bakaabiigishkang zhinoodaagan. Gichi-jiikendam. “Amii gii-bakinaadang Leslie Black gaa-gii-gichi-gizhiibatoopan 56.4 minik diba’iganensens ishkwaawaach awiya — 4 daso-diba’iganens, 25.3 diba’iganensens.” Gaawiin o-gii-noondanziin ishkwaawaach gaaikidonigwen. O-michi-noondawaa’ eta gaa-baabiibaaginid.

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Death Is No Stranger Widowed, she stood, by the side of a fresh-dug grave, the rains of sorrow on and down her cheeks, while the Anglican minister intoned his prayers for the dead, another indian who’d bitten the dust of a coal mine too often. she could have cursed industry and she could have thrown herself on the mocking bouquets of forget-me-nots, she might have if she’d been a white woman but she was just another earth-brown-faced squaw, taking another injustice without a fuss somehow knowing in the end death is no stranger death is non-selective among the races of mankind

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Gaawiin Mayagendaagozinoon Nibowin Zhiigawiid, awe ikwe niibawi imaa gaagii-izhi-moona’igaadenig ningwa’igan, maanendamowin gaa-inaazhigawininig daabishkoo gimiwanaabo onawing, megwaa dash mekadewikwanawe e-anama’etawaad gaa-gii-ishkwaa-bimaadizinid, bezhig miinawaa anishinaabe gaa-gii-nisigod moona’asiniiwin ozaam naa moozhag. bizaanigo o-daa-gii-gichi-ayinaapinendaan iweni gaa-odaapinigemagak asiniikewin bizaanigo gaye imaa waabigoniing daa-gii-izhiapaginidizo giishpin naa wemitigoozhiikwewipan gaawiin dash, wiin aaniish eta bezhig miinawaa wezaawazhaged-anishinaabekwe, bizaanigo miinawaa e-zhiibigaabawitang gegoon e-ikidosig e-gikendang dash ishkwaawaach izhisenig gaawiin mayagendaagozinoon nibowin aaniin igo inazhageyin omaa akiing gi-ga-debinigon nibowin

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and she walked away from the condolences both real and pretended the rains of suffering fell on her path to the children she must feed.

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amii dash gii-maajii’adood gaa-ishkwaa-ganoonigod gaa-bi-waabamigod aaninda debwe aaninda gaawiin debwe gagwaadagendamowin daabishkoo gimiwanaabo gaa-bangisininig ezhi-dadaakokiid e-naazikawaad oniijaanisa’ ge-ashamaad.

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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Legacy John, an indian who never went to jail was the memory left for us, my sisters and I. not a car for our use not a house worth thousands not bonds in our names not a nickel did come our way on a death-winning day. John, an indian who never took welfare was the legacy left for us, my sisters and I. not a boat for our pleasure not lands worth tens of thousands not trust funds in our accounts not a dime did come that day when death passed our way. John, father, human being who loved us is the faith we cling to, my sisters and I.

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Gaa-naganigooyang John, awe anishinaabe wiikaa gaa-gii-ayaasig gibaakowidiiwigamigong amii awe ganwiikewin eta negadamaagooyaang nishiimenzhag zhigo niin. gaawiin wiin odaabaanens ji-aabaji’angid gaawiin gaye waakaa’igan gaa-angideg gaawiin gaye zhooniyaa gaawiin nawaach naano-biiwaabikoons gii-biizhisesii apii gii-ishkwaa-bimaadizid. John, awe anishinaabe wiikaa gaa-gii-andooshkanzig ashangewin amii iwe ganwiikewin negadamaagooyaang nishiimenzhag zhigo niin. gaawiin wiin jiimaan ge-babaa-gizhiibizoyaang gaawiin gaye aki niibiwa gaa-inangideg gaawiin gaye zhooniyaa ji-nagadamaagooyaang gaawiin nawaach midaaso-biiwaabikoons gii-bi-izhisesii apii gii-ishkwaa-bimaadizid. John, nindedenaan, awe anishinaabe gaa-giizhaweniminangid amii iwe debweyendamowin eyaa’aang nishiimenzhag zhigo niin.

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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Love that died, having tried its best to give us shelter, food, clothing so we could survive to know the misery, the misery and the ecstasy, the ecstasy of living. life

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Gii-niboomagan gizhewaadiziwin, e-ondami-gagwe-miininangid ge-izhidaayaang, miijim, ge-gigishkamaang ji-onji-bimaadiziyaang ji-gikendamaang gagwaadagenimowin. gagwaadagenimowin gaye jiikendamowin, gii-jiikendaagwag bimaadiziwin.

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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Broken, I Knew a Man I knew a man, from the reserve, who greeted the summer sun from the ditches of his last night’s drinking mud and stones in his pant-cuffs, he never had to tie up his knotted laces of his canvas runners which he never took off, they fell off. his soul was like the open pages of Layton’s best works, always penned in truth, no matter how dirty or whiskysoaked and as I would ride off to work he would meet me, ask for two dollars again and again I remember my initial reaction: ‘two bucks? what the hell for?’ and as always, he would grin his toothbroken smile and explain the price of cheap wine had also gone up. I didn’t give it to him. Today, I read in the local paper INDIAN KILLED BY FREIGHT TRAIN IN HUDSON and I wondered, who will be next to greet, broken, the summer sun.

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E-bookoshkaayaan, Nin-gii-gikenimaa Inini Nin-gii-gikenimaa anishinaabe ishkoniganing e-onjiid gaa-boozhoo’ang gizheb imaa giiyaabi e-bimishing gaa-gii-izhi-gawibiid gaa-dibikaninig azhashki asiniinsa’ gii-gaajisewa’ beskiigizinid odaasan gaawiikaa o-gii-dakobidoosiinan omakizineyaabiin obimibatoo-makizinan wiikaa gaa-gii-giichigoshkanzig gii-giichikoseniwan aaniish. ojaak daabishkoo gaa-baakiigising iwe Layton gaa-giiozhibii’ang, bizhishig e-debwe’ibii’igaadeg aanawi wiinadak gaye ishkodewaabo gaa-ziigiseg imaa e-maajiibizowaan dash e-ando-anokiiyaan ni-nagishkaag ako, e-andodamawid niizhwaabik miinawaa miinawaa dash nin-ganwiike gaa-gii-inendamaan nitam: niizhwaabik? wegonen dash baakach? amii dash bizhishig ako gaa-gichi-zhawiingwenid e-dawaabide’aapid, e-wiindamawishid ani-ishpangide zhoominaabo maawach gaa-dabasangideg. Gaawiin nin-gii-miinaasii. Noongom dash, nindangidaan dibaajimoo-mazina’iganing ANISHINAABE GII-BICHIBIZO ODAABAANIKANAANG HUDSON amii dash ezhi-naanaagadawendamaan, awenen miinawaa ge-boozhoo’aad gizhebaa-giizisoon biigoshkaad. Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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To: My Friend, the Painter Joshim Kakegamic My friend is famous now, his silly drawings we used to get such a kick out of are not so silly now. They’re hanging in the halls of the Ontario College of Art. I remember the painting that blows everyone’s mind; the one with the stingray horns and the king of the taiga forest, all fine lines of ochre and scarlet and blackest black, that one of the moose against a circling blue background, I remember asking my friend, ‘what on earth is that supposed to mean?’ and he answering, ‘be darned if I know.’ and we didn’t say it then, we were just kids in high school but each painting has all the meanings of the earth and beyond for each viewer of a painter’s canvas and acrylic reproductions of the forces that drive his soul to his destiny. to paint.

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Ni-wiijiiwaagan Netaa-mazinibii’iged Joshim Kakegamic Ni-wiijiiwaagan wiinge naa aazha gichi-inendaagozi, omazinibii’iganan gaa-gii-baapitooyaangiban noongom gaawiin aapiji nim-baapitoosiimin Iya’iing noongom agoodewan Ontario College of Art gaa-izhinikaadeg. Nin-ganwiikenindaan bezhig mazinibii’igan gaa-mamaandaawinaagwak, awe gaa-niibawid gaa-mangi-deshkanid awe wegimaawid noopimiing e-makadewibiiwaad gaye e-miskobiiwaad, awe moonz gaa-niibawid odaanaang dash e-waakaa-ozhaawashkobii’igaadeg, Nin-ganwiike e-gagwejimag ni-wiijiiwaagan, “wegonen baakach enwaadeg iwe gaa-mazinibii’aman?” amii dash gaa-izhi-nakwetang, “namanji sa.” gaawiin nin-gii-ikidosiimin iwe apii nin-gii-gwiiwizensiwimin aaniish endaso-mazinibii’igan ayaamagan gakina gegoon gechi-inendaagwak akiing gaye awasinake ji-waabandang deso-waabandang mazinibii’igan wenjibidenig ojichaakong enwaazod ji-mazinibii’ang.

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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Sunset on Portage (from the bus depot) the Winnipeg sun dies lastly on the blue logo of the Bank of Montreal.

Fluorescent and neon lights, man’s creation supplants God’s technology.

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E-bangishimod Giizis imaa Portage Miikanaang (basing gaa-izhi-gibichiid onji) E-bangishimod Giizis imaa Portage Miikanaang (basing gaa-izhi-gibichiid onji) Miskwaagamiwiziibiing nibo giizis ishkwaawaach imaa gaa-ozhaawashkobii’igaadeg Bank of Montreal zhooniyaawigamigong.

Gaa-aakwaategin waasikwanenjiganan wemitigoozhi odoozhichigan naabishkaagemagan Gizhemanidoo odoozhichigan.

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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Old Daniel A wigwam, fire in the centre, smoke rising, and the interior decorated with children’s laughter, grandmother’s soft comfort, and even mother’s periodic scolding instruction, and best of all, huddling together in winter seems now a lifetime away said Old Daniel in guttural Saulteaux. Old Daniel (he’s my mother’s brother) told me

his memories

when I visited him, sometime last year in the Senior Citizens’ Spic and Span tiled floor, flower-potted window, highrise apartment building on Elgin St. in Winnipeg. I remember leaving, disengaging the cold fingers of the old Indian’s desperation promising

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Daaniyanish Wiigiwaam, ishkode naawiya’iing, gaa-ombaabateg biindig dash gaa-waawezhichigaadeg abinoojiizhag o-baapiwiniwaa, ookomimaa ogizhewaadiziwin, gaye omaamaamaa ningoding ogizhiiwe-gikino’amaagewin, maawach dash menwendaagwak gii-oko-giizhoobinaaniwang gii-biboong epiichi naa ginwesh inendaagwak noongom ikido Daaniyanish e-anishinaabemod. Daaniyanish (nimaamaa osayenzan) nin-gii-wiindamaag gaa-ganwiiked gegoon gii-mawadisagiban ngojigo odaanaang biboonong Akiwenziiwigamigong Spic and Span gaa-izhinikaadeg michisag gaa-ateg, waabigoniin gaa-ategin waasechiganing, gichi-waakaa’iganing imaa Elgin miikanaang Miskwaagamiwiziibiing. Nin-ganwiike, e-maajaayaan, e-gajishkininjiinag oninjiin dekininjiid e-biigwendang e-ashodamawag

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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when I find a place by the lake you can come home to Dryden with me.

The next time I thought of Old Daniel was when I got a notice asking, as a near relative Could I make funeral arrangements for

Old Daniel.

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apii mikamaan waakaa’igan jiigi-zaaga’igan gi-ga-giiwewinin imaa Dryden.

Apii miinawaa gaa-mikwenimag Daaniyanish nim-biijinizha’amaagoo ozhibii’igan e-inawemag aaniish Nin-daa-naagajitoon na ji-na’inaaganiwid

Daaniyanish.

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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Kenora Bus Depot grey-haired man, staggering behind the Kenora Bus Depot could have been my grandfather, his were the same wind-torn cheekbones, his were the same cotton green pants. the grey-headed Indian slipping past the red stop light could have been my grandfather, except he died long before I was a man, sober ego walking in distaste past the drunkards in the snow. for my grandfather died without ever having tasted a drop of rum, or rye or wine, not because he couldn’t have (so my father told me. and if I can’t believe him, who can I trust?). no, the facelines for weather’s rain or snow and the baggy trousers of my grandfather were worn in dignity, in sobriety by choice.

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Gaa-izhi-bagamibizod Bas Wazhashkonigamiing gaa-waabikwed akiwenzi, izhi-zasaka’aagese odaanaang gaa-izhi-bagamibizod bas Wazhashkonigamiing bizaanigo nimishoomisiban bezhigwan e-izhiingwed bezhigwan dino odaasan gaa-waabikwed akiwenzi gaa-bimi-ayaad e-gibichiisig gii-miskwaatenig daabishkoo nimishoomisiban, mewinzha dash gii-ishkwaa-bimaadiziiban jibwaa-gichi-ininiiwiyaan, gii-nanawaadizi bizhishig e-gii-dabasenimaad menikweshkinid gooning gaa-abinid. gii-ishkwaa-bimaadizid nimishoomisiban gaawiikaa o-gii-gojipidanziin ishkodewaaboo gaye zhingobiiwaabo gaye zhoominaabo gaawiin e-gii-gashkitoosig ji-debinang (amii gaa-izhid nindede giishpin dash debwetawaasiwag awenen ge-debwetawagiban?). gaawiin, gimiwan maagizhaa gaye goon gaa-gii-oziingweshkaagod gaye gaa-gii-banangwegizinid odaasan nimishoomisiban o-gii-gigishkawaan e-nanawaadizid amii aaniish iwe gaa-izhi-andawendang.

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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that’s why I want to believe when the older men and women sitting, mourn for the “old days” even as time and time again I have to step down off my sober ego and pick up, for my grandfather, a grey defeated man, foaming white at the mouth in the Kenora Bus Depot.

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amii wenji-andawendamaan ji-debwetamaan akiwenziwag gookominaanag gii-namadabiwaad gii-dazhindamowaad gaa-gii-izhiseg mewinzha, amii dash noongom gaa-izhiseg ji-boonendamaan gii-nanawaadiziyaan ji-awi-wiiji’ag, nimishoomisiban mikwenimag, awe gaa-waabikwed akiwenzi gaa-bagijiid gaa-biitewidooned gaa-izhi-bagamibizod bas Wazhashkonigamiing.

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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Pine Tree A white pine, four thousand feet of growth reaching to the blue sky its embroidery, the cirrus clouds snowy, wispy draped on the boughs of A white pine, four thousand years of growth ‘One little, two little, three little indians...’ that stupid song’s driving my soul into the ranks of AIM ‘Four little, five little, six little indians...’ I’d like to slice that composer’s neck like a rabbit on snare wire, by its throat screaming child-like, ma! ma! until he or she realized; that stupid song’s driving my soul into the ranks of AIM 130

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Zhooweyaandag Zhooweyaandag, niiwaak daswaak daso-mizid epiichigaabawid ozhaawashkogiizhigong ezhi-inaakoniketaad gaa-mamazinigwaadeg giizhig ini gaa-baabiiwaasingin wakwiin gooniwanoon, baabiiwaasinoon e-agoodegin imaa odikwaning awe zhooweyaandag, niiwaak daswaak daso-biboon epiichigid “Bezhig niizhin nisin anishinaabensag...” epiichi-zhiingitamaan iwe nagamonens gaa-izhishkaagowaan ji-wii-wiijiiwagwaa igi anishinaabensag gaa-nishkaadiziwaad “Niiwin, naanan, ningodwaaso anishinaabensag...” ambegish bakizhamowag okwegan gaa-gii-ozhitood nagamon daabishkoo waabooz gii-nagwaazod okweganing e-biibaagid daabishkoo abinoojiizh, maa! maa! baamaa dash gii-gikendang; iwe nagamonish inishkaagowaan ji-wiijiiwagwaa igi anishinaabensag gaa-nishkaadiziwaad

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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In-Family Tribal Warfare his sister, Mary Ida, left home one hot December. it was hot for the words they shot like arrows into each other’s backs. She: you’re just an apple Indian. He: I suppose you sold your body to that honkie for 2-bits. war; war between loved ones is sometimes as horrible as scalping a beaten foe. especially in-family tribal warfare, sometimes.

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Inawemaaganikaang Gaa-dazhi-miigaading omisenzan Mary Ida gii-maajaawan e-gizhideg Gichi-anama’egiizhiganigiizis e-bimangizod, gii-gizhide aaniish naa ini ikidowinan gaa-gii-aabajitoowaad daabishkoo bikwakoon e-bimodamowaad ji-godaawisenigin opikwaniwaang. Ikwe: e-gagwe-wemitigoozhiikaazoyin. Inini: gi-gii-wiipemaa awe wemitigoozhi ji-diba’amaag aabitawaabik miigaading: gii-miigaadiwaad ge-zhawenindiwaapan ningoding apiichi-gagwaanisagendaagwan daabishkoo gii-nisind gaa-maanzhi’ad neshkenimad. memindage inawemaaganag gii-miigaadiwaad ningoding.

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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Mahkwa (bear) Photographs of people I love bring tears to my eyes: for Michael Mahkwa Auksi my three-month-young son I cried yesterday. The photographer captured him sitting upright for a split second, and cute, oh how cute he is in baby colours; he wears a sky-blue sleeper and he plants right-hand fingers over his teddy bear, fragile short-haired motor head perched on top of sixteen-pound perfectly formed body. His face is soft symmetrical features like his mum’s who pleasures in his alert Estonian-Ojibway-Cree-Sioux eyes where there are no tears, only innocence.

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Makwa amii awedi Michael Mahkwa Auksi gaa-niso-giiziswed ningozisens gaa-gii-mawimag bijiinaago. Mazinaakizigewinini o-gii-gaachidinaan e-namadabinid gwayak aapiji ajina, e-gii-wawiiyazinaagozid, iinse wawiiyazinaagozi e-gigishkang ogigishkiganensan ozhaawashkwaani onibewayaanens omakoonsiman dash ogichiwinaan e-dakonaad, e-dakwaanizised otigwaan e-minogid awe abinoojiizhens naasaab e’iidawi-izhiingwed daabishkoo omaamaan gaa-minwendang e-bagakendaminid aazha Estonian-Anishinaabe-Omashkiigoo-Bwaan gaamashi nitaa-mawisii aaniish gaamashi ogikendaziin ji-mawid.

Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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Soft and Trembling Cry The soft and trembling cry of a bird came through the front window. Its notes still sounded among the maple shrubs as Tana went outside. Again the soft and trembling cry came. It was haunting like the loon call over the summer river, and yet it was strong like the wolf howls from the upper timberline surrounding the village. Thirteen-year-old Tana heard the strange call fading slowly in the distance as she went back into the four-room cabin. There she smiled at another more familiar cry: the hungry cry of her two-year-old brother Georgie. He was the youngest in her family, which included two other brothers and a sister. Tana was babysitting them while her parents were away at a fishing camp, 20 miles further west on the English River. Although it was early dawn, the sun had not yet showed its round face through the trees in the east. Tana’s grandmother had also been awake for the last hour or so. Kokum, the Ojibway word for grandmother, was waiting for water in a stainless steel kettle to boil. When steam came out of the kettle’s spout, Kokum would make another cup of her favourite drink, fresh hot tea. After Tana fed Georgie, she put him back in his tiny cedar wood crib. “Kokum, I heard a strange-sounding bird...,” Tana said in Ojibway as she sat across a small table from her grandmother. Kokum nodded solemnly. “I heard him too,” she said. “What kind of bird was that, Kokum?” Tana asked as she sipped from a cup of hot tea. Kokum didn’t answer right away. Instead, she sighed heavily, drawing her Hudson’s Bay blanket tighter around her thin shoulders. “Kokum?” Tana said. Tana waited patiently for her grandmother to speak. This was something she had not forgotten even though eight winters of her life had been spent in nearby town schools. 136

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Gaa-wiisakwed Niningitaagozid Gaa-mawid Gii-wiisakwe niningitaagozi gaye awe bineshiinzh gaa-noondaagozid agwajiing imaa waasechiganing. Giiyaabi imaa ininaatigong onjitaagozi e-zaaga’ang Daana. Aazha miinawaa noondaagozi. Daabishkoo gaa-inwed maang ziibiing gii-niibing initaagozi, wiinge dash gaye zoongitaagozi daabishkoo ma’iingan gaa-oonod noopiming gii-danitaagozid. Midaashi-niso-biboone Daana. Onoondawaan waasa gaaonjitaagozinid, apane dash nishikaach e-ani-angotaagozinid. Miinawaa biindige imaa gaa-niiwi-bakesiganigaadeg waakaa’igan. Zhawiingweni e-noondawaad miinawaa bakaan gaa-noondaagozinid: e-wiiwiisininid oshiimenzhensan Georgie, niizho-biboonewan. Amii awe gaa-oshiimenzhimaawid. Niizhiwa’ godag oshiimenzha’ bezhig dash omisenzan. Daana dash ganawenimaawaso e-ondamendinid ogichiayaama’ gwaashkwebijigewigamigong niishtana daso-diba’akaan ningaabii’anong inake imaa Zhaaganaashiiwi-ziibiing. Aanawi aazha biidaaban, gaamashi mooka’anzii giizis jiigeyaakwaang waabanong. Daana ookoman gewiin aazha gii-goshkozi ango-diba’igan. Gookom, amii ezhinikaazod ookomimaa. Obiitoon nibi ji-wandenig imaa boodawaanaabikong. Apii gii-maajii-wandeg nibi, amii jidiiwaabooked Gookom. Apii Daana gaa-ishkwaa-ashamaad George-an, o-gii-giiwebimishimaan imaa omitigo-nibewinensing. “Gookom, nin-gii-noondawaa e-mayagitaagozid bineshiinzh...” odinaan ookoman Daana. Anishinaabemo. Biidaasamabiwan ookoman. “Nin-gii-noondawaa geniin,” odigoon ookoman. Gaawiin zhawiingwenisiiwan. “Awenen dinookaan bineshiinzh awedi, Gookom?” odizhigagwejimaan Daana e-gwaabandang odiim gaa-gizhaagamidenig. Gaawiin zhemaak nakwetanzii Gookom. Michi-aanzanaamo, owaaboowaan e-gashkiiginidizod daabishkoo e-giikajid. Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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That amount of time away from her village had affected Tana though. She liked to wear the same clothing as the town girls; dresses and nylons, medium-height pumps, soft clinging sweaters and even the now fashionable blue jeans. Her taste in music was the fast and heavy rhythms of rock music like Blondie and the Jacksons, not the light country music preferred by people in the village. Although her parents had talked about her staying in the village, Tana wanted above all to return to the nearby town and go to high school. Tana brushed back her thick, black hair that had fallen across her eyes. Her fingers, like the rest of her body, were long and slender. Her face was on the small side with a straight thin nose and mouth. An intelligent girl, Tana’s eyes showed this; they were wide and always full of questioning wonder, especially as her Kokum began to speak in low, soft tones, not unlike the sound of that bird that had called. “That was the Death bird…” Kokum began. Her eyes seemed to mist over in remembered mysteries. A look of fear passed swiftly across her kindly, wrinkled face. A shiver slowly started at the base of Tana’s back, rose gradually to her neck where the hairs seemed to stand up. Yet quietly, Tana listened to the legend of the Death bird. “When you hear the cry of the Death bird, it is calling for the soul of a family member: a father or mother, a son or daughter, anyone, even me, an old grandmother…” Kokum managed to smile. Then she continued, “You must track it down in order for the magic of the Death bird to have no effect; but if you don’t kill it, then you will die, sometime soon after…” A cold chill seemed to grip Tana’s heart as she understood what her grandmother said. “Last summer, remember that man who died?” Kokum continued talking in hushed voice. “He died after playing in a soccer game, during the summer feasts, and the doctor from town said he died of a heart attack… and him being only 38 years old, never been sick before in his life…” Tana remembered the cheerful, good-looking man who had often teased her about becoming a woman. It was true, he had never seemed the kind of man to die of a heart failure.

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“Gookom?” odinaan ookoman Daana. Obii’aan gegoon ji-ikidonid ookoman. Amii owe bezhig gegoon mashi e-waniikesig Daana, aanawi ginwesh nishwaaso-biboon e-giiondendid gikino’amaadiiwigamigong. Ogikendaan ji-bii’aad ookoman ji-giigidonid. Minik iwe gaa-ondendid oodenaang, gii-onji-bakaanendaagozi Daana. Ozaagitoonan ji-gigishkang magoodan gaa-gigishkamowaad oodenaang gaa-ayaawaad wemitigoozhiikwensag. Magoodan, gaazhaabwaateyiigiziwaad azhiganag, ginwaakodoondanekizinan, biinda’oozonan, gaye igi gaa-ozhaawashkwegiziwaad midaasag gakina noongom oshkaadiziig gaa-gigishkawaawaad. Nawach gaye gizhiiweni gaa-nitaa-bizindang bizinjiganing, igi Blondie gaye Jacksons gaanagamowaad. Gaawiin wiin nawach gaa-bechitaagokin bizhikiwininiinagamonan. Odaana-gii-andawenimaawaan ishkoniganing ji-izhidaanid odaanisiwaan igi gichi-anishinaabeg. Wiin dash igo Daana oodenaang o-gii-andawendaan ji-izhidaad ji-dazhi-gikino’amawind. Wiinge ginwaanikwe Daana. Wiinge gaye ginoozi, ginwaakozi. Gegaadawi gaye agaasadeyiingwe. Agaasideshangwane gaye agaasidoone. Nisidawinaagozi gaye e-gagiitaawendang, imaa oshkiinzhigong, memindage gii-maajii-gaagiigidonid ookoman. “Nibowin bineshiinzh...” maajii-ikido Gookom. Maajii-mikwendam gaa-gii-izhisenig ako mewinzha, gii-maamakaadendangiban ako gegoon. Gegaa e-zegizid izhinaagozi. Gewiin bangii zegizi Daana. Obizindawaan ookoman e-maajiidadibaajimaad ini bineshiinzhan gaa-andomaad awiyan ji-nibonid. “Gii-noondawad awe dinookaan bineshiinzh e-andomaad ojichaakwan awiyan ji-nibonid, awenenigo odedemaa, omaamaamaa, ojichaakwan, odaanisimaa, awenen igo, booshke niin, ookomimaa...” Bangii zhawiingweni Gookom. “Amii dash ge-izhichigepan awiya jinandonewaad ini bineshiinzhan ji-nisaad. Giishpin nisaad, amii gaawiin da-odaapiniwesii. Giishpin dash nisaasig, amii awe gaa-gii-gagwe-nisaad ge-izhi-nibod wiin. Gaawiin ginwesh.” Zegizi Daana e-nisidotawaad ekidonid ookoman. “Gi-gikendaan na niibinong gaa-gii-nibod bezhig inini?” ikido Gookom. “Gii-nibo gii-ishkwaa-odaminod omaa, megwaa gii-

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“I know about that man,” Kokum said. “Some days before, he had heard the Death bird, and he tried to kill it, but…” Kokum stopped, a look of sadness in her dark eyes. Tana’s breath caught in her throat, she got up. “I’ll go get some more water,” Tana said. Even if the Death bird would call again, wanting the soul of one of her family to leave with him into the land of the departed spirits, life had to go on. She still had her younger brothers and sisters to look after. Tana grabbed a metal pail and left the cabin. But on the weed-lined path, on the fifteen-minute walk to the sandy shore of the English River, tears welled up in Tana’s eyes as she finally realized the full significance of the Death bird. On a large, flat rock close to the gently lapping waves, Tana cried softly as she thought of her family one by one. How could she bear it if one of them left with the Death bird? Her father — stern but gentle, in his teasing way, of her moodiness, wanting what was best for her, even when that had meant Tana leaving the village at the age of six to go to school. Her mother, sweet one moment, then angrily yelling at Tana’s often lazy way of doing things, so pretty with her long, black hair and tall, full figure. Her ten-year-old sister, Gracie, was already prettier than Tana, always surrounded by boys in the schoolyards during recesses, hating Tana’s hand-me-down clothing but oh, all the talks late into the night, and early into the morning. Her eight-year-old brother Steve was a tease like his father, but he was smart in school, and a good hockey player in the town leagues. Everybody liked him. Her six-year-old brother Eric cried and kicked as he left with her for school for his first time last September. But he had adjusted quickly, bravely, and oh, how her heart ached for him each time she remembered his pathetic cries. And there was baby Georgie, his sweet fuzzy face and head turning red as he cried for his bottle, most babies being weaned by then, but not him. Oh my poor sweet baby brother, Tana cried, how can I stand it if the Death bird wants him?

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wiikwangenaaniwangiban. Amii dash gaa-ikidod awe mashkikiiwinini oodenaang gaa-gii-onjiid, e-gii-gibichisenig eshkwaad ode’, gii-michinisimidanashi-nishwaaso-biboone dash, gaawiin gaye wiikaa gii-aakozisii aapiji...” Daana omikwenimaan ini ininiwan gaa-gii-nitaa-miikinzomigopan ako e-ani-gichi-ikwewid. Debwe gaawiin gii-aakoziiwaadizisii awe inini, ji-gii-gibichisenigiban ode’. “Nin-gikenimaa gaa-izhichiged awe inini. O-gii-noondawaan iinzan ono dinookaanan bineshiinzhan. O-gii-gagwe-nisaan, gaawiin dash...” Gaawiin gegoon noongom ikidosii Gookom. Michimaanendamonaagozi imaa oshkiinzhigong. Daana gwenawi-ikido, michi-bazigwii. “Nin-ga-naada’ibii,” ikido Daana. Giishpin aana-andonged awedi bineshiinzh ji-wiizhaamaad awiyan odaawining onji, ji-wiijiiwigod jiibayakiing, zhaagooch aaniish jibami’aad oshiimenzha’. Omanibinaan akikwan apane dash zaaga’am. E-bima’adood dash imaa miikanaang wedi naanzibiing gaainamog, ingoji go midaashi-naano-diba’iganens ako bimose Daana ji-oditang iweni Zhaaganaashiiwi-ziibi. Maadademo e-nisidotang ji-odaapinamawind bezhig odinawemaaganan Daana. Imaa ogidaabik izhi-namadabi, e-noondang e-madweyaashkaanig imaa jiigew. Onaanaagadawenimaa’ odinawemaagana’, bepezhig. Wiinge daa-gagwaadagendam giishpin wani’aad bezhig odinawemaaganan, wiijiiwaad ini bineshiinzhan. Odeden — ngoding aakwaadizi, zhaagooch dash gizhewaadizi. Nitaa-miikinji’iwe, onandawendaan maawach wenizhishinig jiizhisenig. Gii-inendam Daana ji-ando-gikino’amaagozinid giiningodwaasobiboonenid. Omaamaan — ningoding gizhewaadizi, amii dash ako ningoding ezhi-nishki-ganoonaad odaanisan gii-gitiminid, e-onizhishinid odaanisan gii-ginwaanizisenid, gii-minwaakojiizinid gaye. Oshiimenzhan dash Gracie gaa-izhinikaazonid aazha nawach onizhishiwan apiich wiin omisenzan e-michi-midaaso-bibooned dash eta. Bizhishig iinzan aazha gaa-nibaajiikaagod gwiiwizensa’ gikino’amaadiiwigamigong, wiinge gaye e-zhiingendang ji-gigishkang

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No, please not baby Georgie, she thought wildly. Then there was old, soft-speaking Grandmother, her Kokum, please not anybody; and also, what about their cousin Linda, the same age as Tana, and her brothers, her parents and all the other relatives… Why couldn’t the Death bird call at some other home? “What you crying about, Stupid?” The male voice came from behind Tana. Tearfully, yet silently, Tana turned, and saw Paul. Paul was sixteen years old, and in grade eleven. Since Tana liked him in a special, nerve-tingling way, normally she would not talk to him. Now, such things didn’t matter. Tana stood up, and began to sob uncontrollably on Paul’s shoulder. “Nothing can be that bad, Tanny?” Paul said softly in Tana’s ear, patting her on the back as she held onto him for comfort. “It is ...” Tana cried, and in between sobs, she told Paul about the call of the Death bird. “No problem,” Paul said simply when she finished, “I’ll go after that silly bird!” “But Paul.” Tana tugged on his arm. “If you don’t kill it, then it will come for you…” “That’s alright.” Paul smiled down into Tana’s wide staring eyes. “Besides, I hate to see you cry like that, Tanny.” “Oh Paul…,” Tana said gratefully. Then she thought again of the dark meaning of the Death bird. And again, a shiver of fear snaked its way through her taut body. But as the first round curve of the eastern sun shone blood red over the trees on the other side of the English River, Tana took a deep breath of relief. Paul would help her. “First, let’s take our water back home,” Paul said. He took his two steel pails, filled them with the cold river waters. Tana did the same with her pail. “You go home, and wait for me there,” Paul said to Tana as they walked past other log cabins of the village. Smoke from their tubular metal chimneys rose straight into the calm, windless morning air. While only a few children already played outside, there was the movement of people through the cabin windows. Paul went a different way, toward the eastern part of the village while Tana went to her home.

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omisenzan ozhiigoshkiganan, aapiji dash ominwendaan e-gaganoonaad omisenzan biinish gii-ishpi-dibikaninig, biinish gii-gizhebaawaganinig. Gaa-nishwaazo-biboonenid oshiimenzhan Steve gaa-izhinikaazonid o-nitaa-miikinji’igoon daabishkoo odeden. Wiinge dash gagiitaawendam gii-gikino’amawaaganiwid Steve. Wiinge gaye nitaa-bimaakoweba’ige, aazha e-odaminod oodenaang zhooshkwaada’ewigamigong. Gakina awiyan ozaagi’igoon. Gaa-agaashiinzhid dash Eric, gaa-ningodwaaso-bibooned gii-mawi, gii-gichi-bapasijiishkige gaye gii-ando-gikino’amawind. Gaawiin dash ginwesh iwe gii-inendanzii. Zhaagooch dash o-gii-goopaadenimaan oshiimenzhan iwe nitam gii-waabamaapan e-mawinid. Maawach dash gaa-agaashiinzhid Georgie, gaa-wawiiyazinaagozid gii-miskwiingwed gii-mawid gii-wii-minikwed. Aazha abinoojiizhag gikino’amawaawag minikwaaganing ji-onji-minikwewaad. Gaawiin wiin George. Giiyaabi wiin moodayaabik onoonaadaan. Ishe gaawiin wiin nishiimenzhens, inendam Daana. Mawi. Gaawiin nin-daa-zhaabwiisii giishpin gegoon izhised nishiimenzhens. Gego wiin odaapinaaken Georgie, inendam Daana. Amii dash miinawaa Gookom, aazha gaa-gitaadizid, aapiji gaaminotaagozid, ishe gaawiin wiin Gookom. Gaawiin gaye bezhig miinawaa oshiimenzhan Linda gaa-izhinikaazonid, gegaa gaa-wiiji-dasobiboonemaad. Wegonen naa bakaan waakaa’iganing gaa-izhi-noondaagozisig awe Nibowin Bineshiinzh? “Wegonen wenji-mawiyin, Gagiibaadiz?” odoonji-igoon gwiiwizensan Daana. Gwegitaa Daana. Niibawiwan imaa bezhig owiijiiwaaganan Paul gaaizhinikaazonid. Midaashi-ningodwaaso-biboone Paul, Gr. 11 dash ayaa. Daana o-giimooji-zaagi’aan ini gwiiwizensan. Gaawiin ako o-ganoonaasiin gii-waabamaad, e-agajiitawaad. Noongom dash e-waabamaad bizaanigo mawi Daana. O-bi-gikinjijiinigoon e-mawid. “Wegonen wenji-mawiyin, Daana?” odigoon.

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“I would do the same thing, if I could ...” Kokum said when Tana told her about tracking the Death bird. Although it was only ten minutes or so until Paul came, Tana walked back and forth inside her home. When he did come, he carried a repeating .22 calibre rifle with a mounted telescopic sight. Over one shoulder, he carried a bag of his necessary hunting things; bullets for the rifle, a hunting knife, matches and bannock to munch on. He showed these to Tana while he quickly accepted Kokum’s gift of hot tea. Before they left, Kokum also gave Paul a package of tobacco. “Burn this when you hear the Death bird in the distance,” Kokum instructed Paul. “It’s an offering to the Manitou for good luck.” “I will,” Paul said. He smiled self-assuredly at Tana. Then they left the cabin, to follow the trail that led to the deepest part of the evergreen forest where the Death bird had flown. Tana followed behind Paul as quietly and as softly as she could. He walked so fast, so full of determination, that Tana’s fear lessened. Maybe, just maybe, they could find the Death bird, and Paul could kill it. Half an hour into the forest, they came to higher ground. Here the trees became bigger, taller, and their evergreen branches seemed to close in all around them. Light from the still early morning sun did not penetrate to the base of the trees. Only a few birds flickered occasionally among the dense undergrowth. The smell of the gum from the spruce and balsam trees was strong. And even though their tracking pace was slow now, Tana’s breath came fast and heavy. Her heart seemed to be beating so quickly and so loud that she was afraid Paul could hear it. Sweat broke out on her forehead, dripping down into her eyes, making them smart with its saltiness. Tana could feel the sweat under her armpits and, in front, she saw that Paul’s blue-shirted back was drenched in nervous moisture too. She tried to remember what Paul had said about the habits of the Death bird. “It is primarily a dusk and dawn bird; it likes to feed in the coolest, deepest and darkest part of the forest during a sunny day; we will find it there, if it has not flown to another territory.” Then she heard it again, the eerie, haunting cry.

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“Awedi nibowin bineshiinzh gaa-zegi’ishid,” ikido Daana. O-wiindamawaan e-gii-noondawaawaad ini bineshiinzhan, gaye dash gaa-gii-ikidonid ookoman. “Gego zegiziken,” ikido Paul, “niin nin-ga-nisaa awe bineshiinzhish.” “Giishpin dash nisaasiwad, giin gi-ga-nib, gego doodangen,” ikido Daana. “Gaa maninaak,” ikido Paul. “Gaawiin ni-minwendaziin e-waabaminaan e-mawiyin.” “Haaw, Paul,” ikido Daana. Giiyaabi dash giimooji-gotaaji. Owaabandaan aazha e-miskwaatenig e-gizhebaawagak. Minwendam Daana Paul-an ji-wiiji’igod. “Nitam giiwewidoodaa owe nibi,” ikido Paul. Omooshkinebanaa’ ini akikwa’. Gewiin Daana omooshkinebanaa’ odakikwa’. “Giiwen, bii’ishin dash wedi,” ikido Paul e-bimimosewaad gaa-izhiwaakaa’iganikaanig. Gwayak ishpiming inaapate okichiikaanaabikong gaa-ondaabateg. Wiinge aaniish anwaatin. Aazha agwajiing bangii abinoojiizhag odaminowag wiiba gizheb. Owaabamaawaa’ awiya’ e-bizhaagiinid waasechiganing. Apane wedi bakaan ina’adoo Paul gaaizhidaad gewiin, bakaan gaye Daana. “Amii geniin ge-izhichigeyaambaan gashkitoowaan,” ikido Gookom, e-wiindamaagod oozhisan gaa-wii-izhichigenid Paul-an. Wiinge zhaagwenimo Daana. Gaawiin ogashkitoosiin ji-goskwaawaadabid. Gii-bagamosed, odakonaan .22 baashkizigan zhiibaayaabanjigan gaa-ateg imaa. Mashkimod gaye obimiwidoon gaa-izhibiindenigin odanwiinsiman, gaye mookomaan gaye ishkodensan gaye bakwezhigan. Owaabanda’aan Daanan, amii dash ezhi-minikwed gaa-gizhaagamidenig gaa-mina’igod Gookom-an. Jibwaa-zaaga’amowaad, Gookom omiinaan asemaan. “Apii noondawad awe bineshiinzh, jaagizo awe asemaa. Amii e-bagosenimad Gizhemanidoo ji-wiiji’ig.” “Haaw,” ikido Paul. Zhawiingweni. Apane maajii’adoowag wedi noopimiing e-izhaawaad, gaa-gii-izhi-waabamaad Daana e-izhaanid ini bineshiinzhan. Wiinge sa gizhii’adoo Paul. Gaawiin nawaach gotaajisii. Amii gewiin eni-inendang Daana. Gaawiin noongom gotaajisii. Ningojigo aabita-diba’igan gii-bimosewag e-gopiiwaad. Nawach ishpaakwaa imaa. Gashkiidibikaakwaa gaye. Aaninda eta bineshiinzhag

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Paul froze instantly and Tana followed suit. Again, the soft and trembling cry reached their hearing. It was coming from some distance ahead of them, from an even thicker growth of evergreen trees. “I’ll burn the offering,” Paul whispered hoarsely. Tana wanted to scream, she was so nervous and afraid. Oh God, she prayed silently, please help us! “Well, here goes.” Paul smiled grimly, stamping out the last of the tobacco. Slowly, quietly, like Ojibway hunters of long ago who trailed whitetail deer, Paul and Tana moved toward the last call of the Death bird. There, on a tall, gaunt tree, black and dead by the force of some previous lightning-bolt, there on a naked limb sat the Death bird. Tana was surprised by its closeness. It looked like a smaller crow or raven; its black feathers glistened in the faint light that filtered through the dense undergrowth around the dead centre…. Its eyes shone like a watersnake’s and its long, sharppointed beak opened and closed as if ready to devour anything, or anybody that came close. Then the Death bird fluttered its black-grey wings, as if to fly away. “Oh, Paul, shoot it, quick,” Tana whispered. Tana held her breath, wishing that Paul would hurry, hurry, hurry… CRACK! the shot startled in its crispness. Tana felt horror as Paul swore, “Damn, I missed it!” Paul squeezed off several more shots as the Death bird rose into the air, the sun glistening silver on its broad black-grey wingspan. The last of the Death bird that Tana saw as she sank onto the mosscovered ground in despair was its flight further into the dark forest. Its sound faded slowly among the surrounding trees; a sound that Tana knew she would never forget, no matter what happened. It was a soft and trembling cry.

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naagoziwag e-babaamosewaad. Bigiwan ominaamaawaan, aaniish badakizowag imaa mina’igoog gaye zhingobaandagoog. Nawach anibeda’adoowag e-bima’anaawaad ini bineshiinzhan. Onandotawaawaan aaniish. Wiinge Daana gizhiide’e aazha miinawaa e-zegizid. Aazha gaye ani-abwezo. Amii ezhi-wiisagaakizod oshkiinzhigong giiinaazhigawinig imaa. Oningwiing gaye izhi-abwezo. Owaabamaan gaye Paul-an e-abwezonid opikwanaang. Gewiin ganabach o-giimooji-gosaan ini bineshiinzhan gaa-bima’anaawaad. Gagwe-ganwiike Daana gaa-gii-igod Paul-an netaa-izhichiged awe bineshiinzh. “Gii-gizhebaawagak gaye gii-onaagoshig izhi-mookii awe dinookaan bineshiinzh,” gii-ikidooban Paul. Gii-giizhigak dash wiin amii imaa gaaizhi-gashkiidibikaakwaag ezhi-minwendang ji-nanaandone’ang ge-miijid. Amii imaa ge-izhi-mikawang, giishpin goda bakaan gaa-izhisesig aazha.” Wenji-noondawaad miinawaa Daana. Zhemaak gibichibani’o Paul. Gewiin Daana. Aazha miinawaa onoondawaawaan. Wedi ningoji niigaan odanitawaawaan, gaa-izhi-zagaakwaanig. “Nin-ga-jaagizwaa asemaa,” izhi-zaaskaanimowe Paul. Ambegish biibaagiyaan, inendam Daana epiitaanimizid. Gizhemanidoo, wiiji’ishinaam! izhi-anama’aa Daana. “Haaw sa,” ikido Paul, gaa-ishkwaa-zakawaad asemaan. “Andonewaadaa.” Nishikaach onaajinootawaawaan ini bineshiinzhan. Amii aaniish gaa-nitaa-ayizhiiwaad mewinzha anishinaabeg waawaashkeshiwan giinaajinootawaawaad. Debwe owaabamaawaan onakong e-made-agoozinid ini nibowin bineshiinzhan. Wiinge makadewaakozi awe mitig, gii-nibooban iinzan awe mitig, e-gii-baaginaazopan. Goshkwendam epiichi-beshonaagozinid ini bineshiinzhan Daana. Daabishkoo aandeg maagizhaa gaye gaagaagi izhinaagozi. Nawach dash agaashiinzhi. Bangii waasigone. Oshkiinzhigoon gaye awe bineshiinzh nindigo ginebigo-oshkiinzhigoon ezhinang Daana. Baapaakishkaani gaye okoonzh daabishkoo e-wii-miijid gegoon. Aazha nana’igonebani’o daabishkoo e-wii-maajiised awe bineshiinzh.

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“Haaw baashkizo,” odinaan Daana. Ambesh naa weyiibitaad Paul, inendam Daana, jibwaa-gii’igowaad ini bineshiinzhan. Weyiib. Weyiib. Weyiib.... K-kaaak-k-k! Goshkotaagwan iwe e-madweziged. Gagwaanisagendam Daana e-noondawaad e-ikidonid, “Ishe nin-giibanawaa!” Miinawaa o-gii-baapaashkizwaan ini bineshiinzhan e-bazigo’onid. Memindage waasigone’aashiwan e-bimaashinid imaa. Apane ishkwaawaach gaa-waabamaad ini bineshiinzhan Daana nawach wedi waasa noopimiing e-inaashinid, apane dash ndawaach wiin gii-ojijiingwanabi imaa aasaakamigaang, e-bagidendang. Onoondawaan e-made-noondaagozinid ini bineshiinzhan, biinish e-angotaagozinid. Amii iwe gaawiin wiikaa o-da-waniikenindawaasiin gaa-initaagozinid, wegonen igo ge-izhisenig. Naningitaagozi awe dinookaan bineshiinzh.

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Bottles Bottles of Canadian Whisky gleaming in the yellow sun of morning still seem beautiful even after a night of parents’ drunken ugliness, they beating on each other through that long dark night with brooms, pots and pans, and even a hammer; and laughing in the yellow sun of morning, Ojibway children who are the age of innocence and therefore still see beauty everywhere play with the emptied bottles of Canadian Whisky.

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Moodayaabikoon moodayaabikoon gaa-izhi-biindeg ishkodewaabo waasaabikide gaa-ozaawaateg gigizheb giiyaabi mino-naagwanoon aanawi gaa-ishkwaa-giiwashkwebiinid o-gichi-aya’aamiwaa’ gabe-dibik e-miigaadinid weba’igan gaye akikwag e-obagamaaganiwaad e-bapakitewidiwaad booshke bakite’iganens e-aabadak; e-baapiwaad gii-gizhebaawaganinig e-ozaawaated giizis anishinaabensag gaawiin mashi e-gikendazigwaa maji-doodamowin giiyaabi dash e-waabandamowaad gaa-onizhishinamowaad gegoon miziwe odoodaminwaagenaawaa ini gaa-bizhishigwaanigin moodayaabikoon.

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Gulls listen... listen... the Ojibway elder speaks he speaks of gulls on a distant lakeshore... listen... listen... you may hear the rustle of wings.

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Gayaashkwag bizindan... bizindan... gichi-aya’aa giigidod gayaashkwa’ wedi waasa agaaming bizindan... bizindan... gi-daa-noondaan ji-baapaawa’aanged

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Dirty Indian David dribbled the soccer ball quickly toward the other team’s goal. He deked first to the left, then swerved his thin, muscular body right. The goalkeeper, a stout boy with light brown hair, came charging out of his crease, and threw his body forward to block David’s shot. David hesitated for a split second, then dropped to his hands on the hard asphalt. With his right leg scissoring further to the right, he drove the ball hard past the startled goalkeeper. The soccer ball bulged into the white twine net. David got up, brushing his hands. He heard the shouts of Hooray of his grade six teammates. But the goalkeeper wasn’t cheering. He was mad. He got up and tackled David from behind. David and the goalkeeper tumbled down on the hard surface of the school yard. David tried to grab the heavier boy’s arms. He only managed to hold onto one flailing arm and fist. With his free fist, the goalkeeper punched David twice, three times in the nose. In desperate anger, David struck back. He felt a sharp twinge of hurt on his left fist knuckles as he struck the goalkeeper’s teeth. David heard the goalkeeper saying, You dirty Indian, even as he felt the blood flowing from his nose. Again, David lashed out, hitting the goalkeeper. The goalkeeper yelped like a little puppy hit by a stone thrown by tormenting boys. Then a teacher came and pulled the boys apart. Okay, you two, the teacher said. Up to the principal’s office. Fighting again, eh David? The principal, who looked like a former college football player, spoke softly, For a boy who does such good school work I’m surprised you would resort to fighting. . . . 154

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Anishinaabewish David ogwaakwaashkwesidoon gwaashkwaanondowaan wedi inake gaaizhi-dibendaminid gaa-atawaad eyaanid. Nitam bezhigwan inake apani’o, amii dash miinawaa godag inake apani’o. Awe dash gaa-gibiwebishkiged gwiiwizens gegaadawi bidikojiizi gii-bi-zaagijibatoo. Apane gii-biijibani’o e-gibiwebishkang David ogwaashkwaanondowaan. Ajina gibichibani’o David. Ezhi-biskijiibani’od. Michisag izhininjiitaa. Gezika ezhi-opime-daashkabebani’od bekish e-basijiishkang gwaashkwaanondowaan e-goshkowinaad ini gaa-gibiwebishkigenid. Apane imaa ezhi-biinjiseg biinjiwebishkiganing. Niibawi David. Baapaawinjiibani’o. Onoondawaa’ owiijigikino’amawaagana’ e-biibaagimidod, e-jiikendamonid. Gaawiin dash wiin jiikendazii gaa-gibiwebishkiged. Nishkaadizi. Bazigonjise, apane David-an odooditinaan. Gaa-izhi-niizhiwaad bangishinoog imaa mitakamig. David o-gagwe-zaginikebinaan ini gwiiwizensan. Bezhig eta onik o-gii-naginaan. Godag dash onik o-gii-aabajitoon awe gwiiwizens e-giibakitewaad David-an mayaa imaa oshangwanaang, niizhwaa biinish niswaa. Indawaa nanaakwii David. Gewiin obakitewaan ini gwiiwizensan. Wiisagininjiishin e-debaganaamaad owiibidaang. Onoondawaan David e-ikidonid “Gaa-wiinizid anishinaabewish,” e-maajii-gibitaned gaye. Miinawaa o-bakitewaan ini gwiiwizensan. Indigo animoons gaabimosina’aaganiwid enwed awe gwiiwizens. Bezhig dash gikino’amaagewinini gii-bi-bagamibatoo e-giinanaginaad ini, “haaw, amii minik! Booni’idik! Gikino’amaage-ogimaa gi-ga-ando-waabamaawaa.”

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It didn’t occur to David that the principal was not angry. He was too scared. He trembled in his second-hand cotton blue shirt and faded denim jeans. What about you, Robert? The principal turned his ice-cold blue eyes on the goalkeeper whose full name was Robert James Smith Jr. What do you have to say for yourself ? He started it! Robert said sullenly, glaring at David. David wanted to cry out, No, I didn’t. Instead he remained silent as the principal asked him, Well, David, did you start this altercation? David kept his silence. Alterca...? Did the principal mean the fight? He wasn’t sure. So he kept silent. Shaking his head, the principal went to sit behind his big desk. Alright, he said tiredly, I warn you, I will not tolerate any more of this type of behaviour at my school, do you hear me? And your parents will have to hear about this, but for now, go back to your class... David. His mother was reading the letter from the principal. David? Yeah, Mum? David answered. He kept his eyes on the macaroni and Klik in his supper bowl. This says you were fighting again.... David, I told you not to fight. Mum, he called me a dirty Indian.... You mean the other boy? Yeah! David’s mother, a small and pleasant looking woman with shiny, black hair worn in braids, sat silent for a long moment. She wore brown slacks from Simpsons Sears and an old blouse from a Salvation Army store. David saw the sparkle of tears in his mother’s eyes as she spoke. We’ve always been poor, especially since your father died, but I always tried to keep your clothes clean… She got up and hurried into the small washroom of the one-bedroom apartment. From where he sat at the kitchen table, David heard his mother crying. He felt a hard lump forming in his throat. Still, silent as always, he finished eating his macaroni and Klik. -

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“Aazha na miinawaa gi-miigaaz, David?” odigoon gikino’amaageogimaan. “Wiinge dash gi-minochige gi-gikino’amaagoowining, wegonen wenji-miigaazoyin?” Gaawiin nishkaadizisii awe gikino’amaage-ogimaa, gaawiin dash iwe e-gikendazig David. Ondami-gotaaji, imaa e-niibawid. “Giin dash wiin, Robert?” odinaan godag gwiiwizensan. Robert James Smith izhinikaazo awe gwiiwizens. “Aaniin gaa-inakamigiziyin?” “Wiin o-gii-maajiton,” ikido Robert, onishkaabamaan David-an. Gaawiin, aana-wii-ikido David, gaawiin dash gegoon ikidosii jidibaajimod. Ogagwejimigoon gikino’amaage-ogimaan. “Debwe na giin gi-gii-maajitoon owe?” Gaawiin dash nisidotanzii David wegonen gaa-idamonid. Ozaam gaazanaganinig zhaaganaashiimowin o-gii-aabajitoon awe gikino’amaageogimaa. Gaawin dash gegoon ikidosii David. Wewebikweni gikino’amaage-ogimaa. Onabi imaa desabiwining. “Haaw sa,” ikido. “Gaawiin ni-nandawendaziin miinawaa ji-miigaadiyeg omaa gikino’amaadiiwigamigong. Nin-ga-wiindamawaag gi-niigi’igowaag. Maajaag giiweg gaa-izhi-gikino’amaagooyeg.” “David,” odigoon omaamaan, e-angindaminid gaa-gii-biijibii’amaagod gikino’amaage-ogimaan awe ikwe. “David?” “Wegonen, maamaa?” izhi-nakwetam David. Gaawiin oganawaabamaasiin omaamaan. Iwe eta gaa-miijid maakanoonii naboob oganawaabandaan. “Amii omaa ezhibii’igaadeg e-gii-miigaazoyin miinawaa... David, gigii-wiindamawin gego ji-miigaazoyin.” “Noojigo osha nin-gii-inaapinemig, gaa-wiinizid anishinaabewish gii-ikido...” “Godag na gwiiwizens?” “Eya!” David omaamaan imaa niibawiwan. Gegaadawi agaashiinzhi awe ikwe, minonaagozi gaye. Apike. Gaawiin gegoon ikidosii zhemaak.

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David played soccer again during recesses. He scored more goals against the goalkeeper, Robert James Smith Jr. There were no more fights. There were the sneering insults, Dirty Indian or Who you gonna scalp today? Each time this happened, David merely kept silent and kept on playing hard. He worked hard in school too. He especially liked reading all the books that his teacher brought him. Miss Helen Parker was twenty years old and fresh out of teacher’s college. She had short yellow hair that curled around her small pretty face. Her nose was well shaped, though it had a small upturn at the end. And with her clear blue eyes, her sparkling smile, and her soft voice, she was like the princesses in Hans Christian Andersen’s magic world that David liked to read about. Maybe because he liked his teacher, or perhaps because of his early love for reading, but probably for both reasons, David did well in school. On a day in June, David and his mother were walking in a city park. David, wearing his usual jeans and denim jacket, ran around, catching dandelion fluffs blown about by the early summer breezes. David heard a sudden cry from his mother as he knelt on the ground, trying to catch his breath. Turning, he saw three men in dirty clothes bothering his mother. Feeling a sudden, familiar knot of emotion in his throat, David ran toward his mother and the young men. He saw the tallest of the young men, a thick-bodied figure with long blond locks of hair, kick his mother in her side. Again his mother cried out as she cowered in the greening grass. David reached them, tried to get between his mother and the young men. But he was pulled by his black hair and tossed aside as if he were a troublesome little puppy. He heard the loud, ugly laughter of the young men as they walked away. Mum, oh Mum, are you okay? David’s voice was a whisper as he went to put his slender arms around his mother. I’m fine, his mother smiled, the warmth of sunshine in her dark, brown eyes as she looked at her son.

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Ozaawegiziwan odaasan Sears gaa-gii-ondinaad. Gete-giishkijii’on dash Sally Anns gaa-gii-ondinang obisikaan. David owaabamaan e-wii-mawinid omaamaan. “Bizhishig gi-bi-gidimaagizimin, memindage gii-ishkwaa-bimaadizid gi-dedeban. Bizhishig nind-aana-izhichige ji-bekakin gi-gigishkiganan gii-ando-gikino’amaagoziyin.” Apane bazigwii awe ikwe. O-made-giba’aan ishkwaandem. Zhaagooch onoondawaan e-made-mawinid omaamaan. Wiinge gegoon gaa-inamanji’od ogwandashkwaang, daabishkoo gegoon e-wiigiboshkaagod. Zhaagooch dash gidaanawe. Miinawaa o-gii-odaminwaagen gwaashkwaanodowaan David giidawised ji-odaminod gikino’amaadiiwigamigong. Aazha miinawaa o-gii-bakinawaan ini gaa-gibiwebishkigenid Robert James Smith Jr. gaa-izhinikaazonid. Gaawiin miigaadisiiwag. Amii eta ezhi-noojigoigod, “Gaa-wiinizid anishinaabewish.” Ngoding gaye “Awenen waamanindibezhwad?” Daswaa dash iwe gaa-izhiseg gaawiin gegoon ikidosii David, amii eta enigok ezhi-odaminod. Gii-gichi-anokii gaye gii-gikino’amawind. Memindage o-gii-minwendaan e-agindang ini mazina’iganan gaa-miinigod gikino’amaagewikwen. Miss Helen Parker izhinikaazo awe gikino’amaagewikwe. Niishtana daso-biboone. Amii e-maajii-gikino’amaaged. Dakwaanikwe, ozaawaanikwe gaye. Onizhishi. Wiinge gaye onizhishinini oshangwan. Ozhaawashkwaaniwan oshkiinzhigoon, gaye onizhishi gii-zhawiingwenid. Minotaagozi gaye gii-gaagiigidod. Daabishkoo ogimaakwens gaadibaajimind imaa Hans Christian Andersen odimaajimowining inendaagozi, inendam David. Aabiding dash ode’imini-giizis e-bimangizod, babimosewag David omaamaan dash oodenaang. David, gaa-nitaa-izhi’od izhi’o. Babaamibatoo e-odaminod bekish. Megwaa dash e-ojijiingwanabid mitakamig David e-anweshing ajina, wenji-noondawaad e-nawajimonid omaamaan. Owaabamaa’ nisin Gaawiin Mawisiiwag Anishinaabeg

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I hate them! David whispered harshly. David, David, don’t say that, his mother said softly. Don’t you know, if you hate someone like that, then you’re no better than they are.... David didn’t really know what she meant, though he sensed she was right. Taking her hand, he held on tightly as they began to walk to their home. On the last day of the school year, David sat impatiently at his desk. Once he received his report card, he was free for the summer. May I have your attention, please. Miss Parker, who looked like a princess in her blue summer dress, stood at the front of the classroom. When all eyes were on her, Miss Parker spoke. I’d like to say, it’s been a really good year teaching you all. All of you will form a clear and lovely memory that I will keep forever. And remember, what’s important is that you try hard; try to do the very best that you can do, not what somebody else does. It’s what you achieve that’s important... so here are your report cards. In alphabetical order, Miss Parker started calling students. Mary Anderson. A dark-haired girl in a green pantsuit went forward to receive her progress report. Joe Conroy. Joe, a grin spreading across his freckled face, also went forward to learn how he had done. David squirmed in his seat. Miss Parker had said that the ten best report cards would be given out last. His would be among that group. He looked intently at Miss Parker as she paused, fine hands on her hips. Class, I’m pleased to acknowledge the following students. Each of these ten students has worked especially hard this year, and I’m proud to have had them in my class. Once more Miss Parker paused. And the student who gets his card last came first in class. She smiled and began to call out the students’ names. With each name called, each report card given and received, the silence grew. David shivered in anticipation. Only Brenda Wagner and Robert James Smith Jr. and he had not received their cards. Fidgeting in his seat, 160

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wemitigoozhiinsa’ e-wiinikwanayenid e-migoshkaaji’aanid omaamaan. Zegise David. Apane zhemaak imaa apatoo gaa-izhi-niibawinid omaamaan. Owaabamaan ini maawach gaa-ginoozinid oshkiniigiwan, bidikojiiziwan e-ozaawaanikwenid gaye. Owaabamaan e-basijiishkawaanid omaamaan imaa opimeya’iing. Imaa mitakamig dazhi-biskijiitaa awe ikwe miinawaa e-nawajimod. David bagamibatoo. Zhegobani’o imaa ji-naadamawaad omaamaan. Ozagaandibebinigoon bezhig. Apane wedi apagijiganiwi, daabishkoo animoons gaa-migoshkaadendaagozid. Onoondawaa’ e-baapinid ini oshkiniigiwa’ e-ani-maajaanid. “Maamaa, gi-gii-wiisagishkaag na?” gegaa go michi-zaaskaanimowe David epiich-zegizid. Ogikinjigwenaan omaamaan. “Gaawiin gegoon nindizhiiyaasii, ningozis,” odigoon omaamaan. Oganawaabamigoon omaamaan. “Ni-nishkenimaag!” ikido David, giiyaabi zaaskaanimowe. “David! Gego iwe ikidoken,” odigoon omaamaan. “Giishpin nishkenimadwaa, amii gegiin ge-izhi-bimaadiziyin gaa-inaadiziwaad. Gego iwe inendagen.” Gaawiin o-gii-nisidotawaasiin wegonen gaa-idamonid omaamaan David. Zhaagooch dash bagwana odebwetawaan. Omaamaan aaniish ini. Apane ani-giiwe’adoowag. Ishkwaawaach e-izhiseg e-gikino’amawindwaa, David namadabi imaa odesabiwining. Ambegish weyiib inendam. Gii-miinaaganiwi iwe mazina’iganens gaa-ozhibii’igaadenig e-gii-giizhitood ogikino’amaagoowin iwe apii. Amii ji-nagadang gikino’amaadiiwigamig gabe-niibin. “Daga bizindawishig,” ikido Miss Parker. Nindigo giiyaabi ogimaakwens ezhinaagozid e-bisikang ogoodaas gaaozhaawashkweganinig. Gakina awiyan oganawaabamigoon. “Nin-gii-minwendaan e-gikino’amawinagoog,” ikido, “wiinge ginwesh nin-ga-minjimendaan omaa e-gii-anokiiyaan. Amii dash gegiinawaa owe minjimendamog: Enigok anokiig gikino’amaagooyeg giinawaa go

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David glanced over at Brenda and Robert. All year, they had both tried to get higher marks than he achieved. Sometimes they did, but not always. Had Robert finally beaten him in the final tests? Had Brenda? Brenda Wagner. Brenda’s pretty face showed her disappointment. Even so, she marched quickly forward to receive her card. David held his breath as Miss Parker looked at the next report card in her hand. Robert James Smith Jr. David slumped backward in his seat. Robert had come second. He, David, had come first. Then Miss Parker called him to the front, and through the clapping of his classmate’s hands, David walked slowly toward his smiling teacher. From Robert James Smith’s desk, David heard the harsh whisper. Dirty Indian! But it didn’t matter. It would never matter again.

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gaa-ako-gashkitooyeg izhichigeg gaawiin wiin awiya bakaan ji-gagwenanaabinaweg, giinawaa go gaa-izhi-debinameg maawach gaa-gichiinendaagwak. Na dash onowe gi-mazina’iganensiwaan.” Miss Parker dash gii-maajii-maamiigiwe ini mazina’iganensan. “Mary Anderson,” ikido. Bezhig ikwezens bazigwii, e-andoodaapinang omazina’iganens. “Joe Conroy.” Bezhig miinawaa gwiiwizens, e-zhawiingwenid izhaa e-ando-odaapinang omazina’iganens. David gewiin gaawiin gisikawibisii o-desabiwining. Baamaa ishkwaawaach nin-ga-miigiwe ini mazina’iganensan, igi midaaso maawach gaa-gii-minochigewaad gikino’amawaaganag aaniish gii-ikido Miss Parker. Ganage wiin imaa da-dagwii? Amii maawiin, inendam. Oganawaabaman ini ikwewan. “Ni-minwendam ji-wiinagwaa ogo midaaso gikino’amawaaganag. Wiinge gii-gichi-anokiiwag ogowe gikino’amawaaganag. Nin-gichiinendaan e-gii-gikino’amawagwaa.” Miinawaa dash zhawiingweni Miss Parker. “Awe dash ishkwaawaach ge-wiinag, amii awe maawach gaanitamised.” O-maajii-waawiinaa’ gikino’amawaagana’. Endaso-wiinzowin gaa-wiinaad, endaso-mazina’iganens gaamiigiweng, gaawiin gegoon awiya ikidosii. Awenen naa gaa-niigaaniid? David gegoon inamanji’o. Ojaanimendam. Giiyaabi Brenda Wagner, Robert James Smith Jr, wiin dash, gaa mashi miinaasiiwag o-mazina’iganensiwaan. Oganawaabamaa’ ini Brenda-wan gaye Robert-an. Gabe-biboon o-gii-gagwe-bakinaagoo’ awenen maawach ge-niigaaniid. Ningoding gii-bakinaage bezhig, ningoding gaye gaawiin. Ganage Robert gegapii o-gii-bakinaagoon? Maagizhaa gaye Brenda? “Brenda Wagner,” made-ikido gikino’amaagewikwe. Bangisiingwese Brenda e-ando-odaapinang omazina’iganens. David gaawiin ogashkitoosiin ji-bagidanaamod e-waabamaad Miss Parker-an e-odaapinamonid iwe miinawaa mazina’iganens. “Robert James Smith Jr.,” ikido Miss Parker. Apane ezhibagidanaamod David e-noondang iwe. Robert-an iinzan gaa-bakinawaad. Wiin iinzan David gaa-bakinaaged, e-gii-niigaaniid.

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Amii dash gaa-izhi-andomigod Miss Parker-an. Bapasininjii’odizowag dash igi gikino’amawaaganag, e-naanzikang omazina’iganens David. Onoondawaan e-bima’adood imaa Robert James Smith odesabiwining, “Gaa-wiinizid anishinaabewish,” e-giimooji-igod. Gaawiin dash gegoon inendazii iwe e-igod. Gaawiin wiikaa miinawaa gegoon daa-inendazii.

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Picture of My Father in the Wawatay News Last October, felt to take a picture of Dad as he sipped Salada tea, for posterity, “one more year to go, and I’ll be 65.” (for my father from Lac Seul Indian Reserve, old age pension is the only answer for survival; after a life of trying to raise children on moosemeat, porridge and Carnation Milk, when one’s joints have given up after the many long winter months on the trapline, and one can barely make it around to make a fresh pot of tea) “Dad, look this way.” CLICK. Went to my darkroom and even in the amber dimness of the Kodak safelight, I could see the appearing chemical integrity as development occurred of my father’s face, for posterity. Put his photograph in the March issue of Wawatay News (voice of the north).

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Gaa-mazinaakizod Nindede Dibaajimoo-mazina’iganing Odaanaang gii-bimangizod binaakwe-giizis nin-gii-wii-mazinaakizwaa nindede e-minikwaadang Salada dii, ji-mazinaakizwag isa go. “giiyaabi ango-biboon amii dash ji-ningodwaasomidana daso-bibooneyaan.” (nindede Obizhigokaang gaa-onjiid akiwenzii-ashamigoowin eta inendam ji-ondaadizid; gaa-ishkwaa-gagwe-ashamaad oniijaanisa’ moonzowiiyaas gizhebaa-miijim gaye biiwaabikoonsing gaa-biindeg joojooshaabo apii gaa-ani-zanagendang ji-bazigwiid ozaam ginwesh ako gii-anokiid wanii’igewakiing, noongom dash e-zanagendang ji-babaamishkaad adoopowining ji-diiwaabooked) “Dede! omaa biinaabin!” Kkk! Nin-gii-izhaa dash imaa gaa-izh-ozhitoowaanan mazinaakizonan, amii dash imaa e-gashkiidibikag, zhaagooch ni-waabandaan e-maajii-ozhi’oomagak iwe mazinaakizon nindede owadeng mazinaakideni ji-mazinaakizwag isa go. Nin-gii-atoon omazinaakizon Wawatay News dibaajimoo-mazina’iganing migiziwi-giizis gii-bimangizod (giiwedinong inwewin).

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In July, showed Dad his picture, “who’s that?” were his words. “you don’t know that old guy?” “no, but he looks like an old woman!” “that’s you.” My father chuckled, then roared in glee, able to laugh at himself, having made it to the people section of Wawatay News, able to take it when the joke was on him, for posterity.

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Miskomini-giizis dash e-bimangizod, ni-waabanda’aa ndede omazinaakizon. “Awenen awe?” gii-ikido. “gaawiin na gi-nisidawinawaasii awe akiwenzi?” “gaawiin, indigo gookominaan ezhinaagozid!” “giin osha awe.” Baapi nindede, apane ezhi-gichi-baapid, e-wawiiyadendang omazinaakizon ji-waabanjigaadenig imaa Wawatay News dibaajimoo-mazina’iganing, bizaanigo e-baapi’idizod. ji-mazinaakizwag isa go.

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Ojibway Girl I saw an Ojibway girl thighs and torso flashing wetly in the foaming whiteness of the English River’s morning swells I saw an Ojibway girl arms and lips turning liquid in the onrushing blueness of the English River’s noonday waves I saw an Ojibway girl breasts and eyes shining moistly in the rippling redness of the English River’s evening waters.

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Anishinaabekwens Nin-gii-waabamaa anishinaabekwens e-waasaakobwaamesed e-dipaabaawed e-waasaashkaag iwe Zhaaganaashiiwi-ziibi e-gizhebaawagag nooding Nin-gii-waabamaa anishinaabekwens onikan gaye odoon e-nibiiwaninigin e-bagami-ozhaawashkonaagwag iwe Zhaaganaashiiwi-ziibi e-naawakweg nooding Nin-gii-waabamaa anishinaabekwens ojoojooshima’ gaye oshkiinzhigoon e-dipaabaawenigin e-miskonaagwak iwe Zhaaganaashiiwi-ziibi e-onaagoshig nibiing.

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Think On Think on when slender silence was our ally thin as 2 lb. test fish line yet steadily pulled will not break, as moment on inch moment we reeled in our emotions. afraid to speak or even grunt at the wrong space: silence marked the effort of our love unwilling to jerk in impatience, despite seeing in each other less than perfect catches.

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Naanaagadawendan Giiyaabi Naanaagadawendan giiyaabi gaa-agaasadeyaag bizaanabiwin gii-wiiji’igoyingiban epiichi-agaasadeyaag daabishkoo gwaashkwebijiganeyaab wiikobijigaadeg gaawiin da-bakisesinoon nenaakaw ayizhiseg e-wiikobidooying gidinendamowininaanan gotaajiying ji-giigidoying booshke ji-noondaagoziying maagizhaa waniizhaaying: bizaanabiwin da-onji-gikenjigaade gaa-gii-gagwe-gashkitooying gi-gizhewaadiziwininaan e-wii-wiikobidoosiwang weyiibiziwin aanawi dash e-waabandamang nawach babenag ji-giigaachidinangiban awiya bakaan.

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For Most of Thirteen Years For most of thirteen years dreams of screaming rides on eagles filled my night eyes dreams that had their birth in trying to escape the sneers through public then high school “You dirty Indian” and fighting for respect an Ojibway youth who lost as much as he won at night he cried into his pillow and through thirteen years dreams of screaming rides on eagles filled his night eyes.

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Awashime Midaashi-niso-biboon Awashime midaashi-niso-biboon e-bawaadamaan ji-bimiwinishiwaad gaa-biibaagiwaad migiziwag gaa-inaabiyaan ako gii-dibikag amii ko gaa-gii-onji-inaabandamaan e-gagwe-giimiitooyaan gii-igooyaambaan ako gikino’amaadiiwigamigong biinish gii-ani-mindidowaan “Gaa-wiiniziyin Anishinaabewish” e-gii-onji-miigaazoyaan anishinaabens minik gaa-wanitood gaa-gii-bakinaaged gii-dibikag gii-mawid odapikweshimoning midaashi-niso-biboon minik e-bawaanaad e-bimiwinigod gaa-biibaaginid migiziwan gaa-waabandang gii-dibikaninig.

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Afterword

George Kenny—Anishinaabe, Son, and Writer by renate eigenbrod Legacy John, an indian who never went to jail was the memory left for us, my sisters and I. ….............................. John, an indian who never took welfare Was the legacy left for us, my sisters and I. not a boat for our pleasure not lands worth tens of thousands not trust funds in our accounts not a dime did come that day when death passed our way. — Indians Don’t Cry, 112

In a period of Canada’s colonial history in which the country is “waking up from its long years of amnesia at last,” as Méira Cook says about the hearings of the South African Truth and Reconciliation Commission (302), the word legacy has become part of a public discourse about intergenerational impacts of the residential schools. When George Kenny used it as a title for a poem about his father, published in his book of short stories and poems 176

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Indians Don’t Cry for the first time in 1977, he was not fully aware of the repercussions of the school legacy in his own life. Even in the book’s title story on the residential school experience he emphasizes “the parent left behind” rather than “the child taken,” to say it in the language of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada.1 In the late ’70s — he had just moved to Toronto — Kenny tried to leave behind the negative experiences of eight years at the Pelican Indian Residential School in Sioux Lookout, Ontario, including one year of sexual abuse at the hands of a supervisor, and concentrate on what he loved to do and what he had learned in the school: writing in English. However, around the time of the publication of the second, extended edition of Indians Don’t Cry in 1982, he made it clear in an interview in the Ontario Indian that, in the interviewer’s words, his “memories of residential school are not pleasant ones…. His hands still carry the scars. He also carries deeper, more important scars” (Dineen 35). It was only much later, in 2012, while he went through the Individual Assessment Process as part of the Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement, that he talked about those “deeper scars,” the sexual abuse, for the first time and saw his life unravelling — both in the sense of explaining to him some choices he had made but also in the sense of almost coming apart.2 In his unpublished memoir he comments on his residential school photo: “I look like a sad little old man in a whiteman’s suit. It was the beginning of when they tried to kill everything Indian in me, which I found much later was their purpose. It didn’t work.” In spite of years of separation from his home, George Kenny dedicated Indians Don’t Cry to his parents. Their nurturing legacy embedded in Anishinaabe culture 1. For a discussion of Canadian residential school literature and George Kenny’s story in particular, see my article, “‘For the child taken, for the parent left behind’: Residential School Narratives as Acts of ‘Survivance,’” in English Studies in Canada 38, 3–4 (September–December 2012): 277–97. 2. In her discussion of the role of Native students in the creation of the Department of Native Studies at the University of Manitoba, Kathi Kinew states about the impacts of residential schools on George Kenny’s generation in the 1970s: “Aboriginal people did not give themselves time to heal from such trauma…leaders of all ages and both sexes were driven to pursue their goals from the raw energy of anger, from their personal knowledge of the discriminatory treatment of their people and denial of their rights” (21). Kathi Kinew, “Native Students Role in Establishing the Department of Native Studies,” in Pushing the Margins: Native and Northern Studies, ed. Jill E. Oakes (Winnipeg: Native Studies Press, 2000), 15–32.

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was strong enough to set off the school’s assimilative measures and helped him to write a book from an “Indian” perspective. It was not material possessions that his parents passed on to him — and there was never an emphasis on those possessions in George Kenny’s life that he shared with his wife Mary Bea Kenny — but the knowledge of the land and its stories as experienced on the trapline with his father, and the language, Anishinaabemowin, which he speaks fluently. I remember his well-attended public talks about the Sasquatch, an amanisookaan (a very hairy man), a character in Anishinaabe oral history, which were held at Kakabeka Falls outside of Thunder Bay. Also, I always saw a bit of the trickster-teacher-transformer Whee-skay-chak in him so that I was not surprised to learn that Kah-kah-ge, the raven, was his boyhood name, as the raven is one of the beings the Trickster can transform into (as he explains in the opening chapter of an unfinished novel, Whee-skay-chak and Kah-kah-ge). As he alludes to in the poem “Mahkwa” (134), he passed on his Bear Clan ancestry to his son Michael Mahkwa Auksi, who is now stepping into his father’s footsteps as a young emergent writer. George Kenny was born in the village of Kejick Bay, which is part of the Lac Seul First Nation in Ontario. When he discovered writing in English as his gift and his calling, he had to make the difficult decision to leave family and friends and a way of life closely related to the land for the sake of his professional development. “Writing never leaves me … and sometimes I feel cursed because I am not content to work in sawmills like some of the men from my reserve,” he states in the Ontario Indian interview in 1982 (36). Estrangement from a known environment became a prominent theme in his writing, especially in his poem “I don’t know this October Stranger”(52), which uncannily echoes the breakup of families through residential school experiences every fall (as he describes in his story “Indians Don’t Cry”). The character who is pursuing a career in the city wears a “whiteman’s suit” like the boy entering residential school. How-

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ever, Kenny rewrites the theme of assimilation by exploring how the tools of Euro-Canadian society may be used for the advancement of his people’s own objectives rather than being a means of oppression. Still, in his play October Stranger, dedicated to the “migrating Native people,” based on his book and in particular on the poem, he shows that some painful decisions have to be made in the process. Co-written with Cree actor Denis Lacroix, Kenny turned his book into a play at the request of James H. Buller, Cree boxer and opera singer, who founded in 1974 the Association for Native Development in the Performing and Visual Arts. Buller had been asked to provide a Native play to represent Canada at a theatre festival in Monaco, but as there was no published Native play in Canada at that time, he approached George Kenny for help. According to Henning Schäfer’s historical overview of Indigenous Canadian theatre, October Stranger, published in 1978, was “the first full-length Native play about contemporary Native people” (Schäfer, “Short History,” 22). It was performed by the Native theatre company Kematewan in Monaco in 1977 and was, as James Buller explained in the introduction to the published version, “the first time that Canada was represented at an International Theatre Festival by a Native production” (Schäfer, “Short History,” v). Given George Kenny’s provocative title for the book on which this play was based, Indians Don’t Cry, with its reference to stereotypical images about Native people, the Monacan response to the play is revealing. In the words of Drew Hayden Taylor, “it was a fiasco. Everybody in Europe seemed to be expecting buckskin, feathers, and beads” (226). One may therefore conclude that at an early stage of Canadian Indigenous literatures in English, George Kenny “subvert[s] the expectation of authenticity,” embedded in “the realm of power and its (uneven) distribution” (Schäfer 308), an ongoing challenge for Indigenous writers who followed after.3 George Kenny did not always use his writing skills for creating fiction or poetry (although he has told me that many drafts of stories and poems are piled up in drawers at home). From 1975 to 1976, he served as 3. A photo of Princess Grace Kelly holding the book October Stranger in her hands with the accompanying caption that “the general appraisal of the play abroad was that it was very new and innovative,” published in Kenny’s guest-edited 1978 issue of Tawow, shows that there must have been also some more appreciative responses to the performance in Monaco.

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the editor of the monthly, partly bilingual (Anishinaabemowin/English) newspaper Wawatay News, based in Sioux Lookout, Ontario. In 1978 he was guest editor for Tawow: Canadian Indian Cultural Magazine, published by the Department of Indian Affairs and Northern Development. Between 1990 and 1995 he was a columnist for the Thunder Bay Chronicle Journal, but between 1976 and 1996 he also served on many non-profit Native community boards (Armstrong and Lauer, “George Kenny”). As well, in Thunder Bay, he worked in adult education at Confederation College, among other institutions, teaching classes in creative writing. Besides these engagements he maintained his interest in the land and its history not only through stories but also through a Euro-Western scientific understanding of its physical features. He finished a Bachelor of Arts (Honours) in Archaeology at Lakehead University in 1998 (after a Bachelor of Integrated Studies in 1984 at the University of Waterloo) and has worked as an archaeological assessment consultant for various Aboriginal agencies for many years. Particularly noteworthy is his work for Lac Seul First Nation on the settlement of its long-standing flood claim (without consultation, the community was flooded in connection with the building of the Ear Falls Dam in 1929). As a creative writer he has voiced his concern about environmental pollution. The unpublished play “Whitedog Cat’s Dance” focuses on mercury poisoning in northern reserves and the film version of October Stranger refers to the Minamata disease that affected the Grassy Narrows reserve, one of the many challenges Native people had to cope with. Having spent the first few years of his life with his father on the trapline, Kenny cares for the land and knows about the importance of a healthy environment for people living off the land. The 1970s was a time of increasing Indigenous environmental concerns, which found expression, for example, in community resistance to hydro developments in Quebec ( James Bay and Northern Quebec Agreement), Ontario (Grassy Narrows and White Dog Lake), and Manitoba (Northern Flood Agreement). In this context, George Kenny’s writing is not only part of an Indigenous literary resurgence but also of an affiliated political protest movement that exposes colonialism, racism, and stereotypes against the background of an ancient history of land-based cultures. In his poem “Pine Tree” he juxtaposes the citation of the racist ditty “One little, two little, three little indians” with the evocation of “A white pine, 180

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four thousand years / of growth,” a juxtaposition that makes the song sound “stupid” indeed — but it still threatens to drive the speaker’s soul “into the ranks of AIM” when hearing it: Four little, five little, six little indians — (“Pine Tree,” 130) Kenny’s collection of short stories and poems is a landmark publication in the history of Aboriginal literatures in Canada. Although, as Anishinaabe writer Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm states, the “creativity that infuses literature has always been part of our cultures, and we have always expressed it in various ways” (Kateri Akiwenzie-Damm 170), before the 1970s there was no recognized field of “Native Literature” in Canada. Even then, because of the marginalization of Indigenous people and their creative expressions, most creative writing was published in Aboriginal newspapers, magazines, and tabloids, as Armand Ruffo points out in his article, “Where the Voice Was Coming From.” And this is how George Kenny started out as well. Besides first attempts in local magazines like the Toronto Native Canadian Friendship Centre’s Boozhoo Magazine or the Ontario Arts Magazine, Kenny published several of his stories and poems in The Native Perspective, which had a wider circulation. Eventually, he compiled his work in the book Indians Don’t Cry, first published in 1977 by Chimo Publishing and republished as an expanded edition in 1982 by NC Press. Nick Ternette, a long-time political and community activist from Winnipeg, concluded his 1987 review of the book in City Magazine with his praise for “a man who more than many, accurately re-

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flects the alienation, frustration, hopes and dreams of urban natives in this small but most important book” (Ternette 45). Kenny was part of a generation of Indigenous creative writers that included those who became well known in later years, like Maria Campbell, Basil Johnston, Rita Joe, and Daniel David Moses. In order to highlight the close connection between “cultural affirmation and political action” (Ruffo 171) at that time, it is also important to remember the non-literary, explicitly political writing that happened concurrently, like Harold Cardinal’s response to the White Paper, The Unjust Society (1969), followed by his The Rebirth of Canada’s Indians, published at the same time as Kenny’s first book, in 1977, as well as Howard Adams’s Prison of Grass and Emma LaRocque’s Defeathering the Indian in 1975. As part of “a decade of socio-political activism” (Ruffo 171), George Kenny is one of the authors who mostly used poetry, short story, drama, and memoir as a means of reclaiming an Indigenous presence in the south of Canada. A chronological list shows Kenny’s work in the context of other significant publications of the 1970s and early ’80s: Wayne Keon, Sweetgrass (1970) Sarain Stump, There Is My People Sleeping (1970) Chief Dan George, My Heart Soars (1971) Maria Campbell, Halfbreed (1973) Peter Blue Cloud, Turtle, Bear and Wolf (1976) George Kenny, Indians Don’t Cry (1977) George Kenny, October Stranger (1978) Rita Joe, The Poems of Rita Joe (1978) Basil Johnston, Moose Meat and Wild Rice (1978) Daniel David Moses, Delicate Bodies (1980) Duke Redbird, Loveshine and red wine (1981) George Kenny, Indians Don’t Cry (rev. ed., 1982) All of Kenny’s contemporaries “broke invisible barriers simply by appearing as a book,” to use Armstrong’s comment on Duke Redbird’s first collection of poetry (xvii), but some became more well-known than others for a variety of reasons. Instead of making a career as an established author, George Kenny chose a different turn for his life. He applied his writing skills in vari-

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ous contexts and wrote stories that were not shared with the public except in newspaper columns. However, he did receive recognition as a creative writer: selected poems from Indians Don’t Cry were published in Penny Petrone’s First People, First Voices (1983) and in Jeannette Armstrong’s and Lally Grauer’s anthology Native Poetry in Canada (2011); a new story, intended as the opening chapter of a novel, appeared in 1992 in an English/ German anthology of Native writing edited by Hartmut Lutz; and a 1985 film version of October Stranger was rereleased in 2011 and shown at the Hub of the North Film Festival in Sioux Lookout. Kenny is known and acknowledged as a storyteller by his community still today. His “little book,” as he always calls it, tells about the lives of people in Anishinaabe communities in northwestern Ontario, home to Anishinaabe artists like Joshim Kakegamic, to whom he dedicated the poem “To: My Friend, the Painter” (118) and Carl Ray, for whom he wrote a poetic eulogy, simply titled a “Note to Carl Ray from George Kenny” (The Sound of the Drum). The fact that copies of Indians Don’t Cry disappeared from public libraries in Sioux Lookout and beyond and lived on in photocopied editions attests to the popularity of the book in northern Ontario. Anishinaabe artist Ahmoo (previously called Allen) Angeconeb, also from Lac Seul, contributed the illustrations to Indians Don’t Cry, making this book “a gem,” to borrow from Armand Ruffo (181). The inclusion of animal drawings comments on Kenny’s land-related identity in spite of his diasporic experiences. The whole text reveals the importance of an early era of Indigenous creative expression noticed by mainstream society that carved the path for generations to come, both in literature and visual arts. In this new bilingual republication, the community context has been further acknowledged as the Anishinaabemowin translation was done by Patricia Ningewance,

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also from Lac Seul First Nation, Kenny’s home community, who is like him from the Bear Clan and therefore a relative. Herself the author of a bilingual narrative published in Manitowapow and a teacher of classes on composition, she considers stories in all different genres written in an Indigenous language crucial for language revitalization. Different from publications in Cree, like the translation of Tomson Highway’s The Rez Sisters, there are no comparable bilingual creative writing texts published in Anishinaabemowin. Altogether — stories, poems, art, and Anishinaabemowin — reclaim and re-centre Anishinaabe culture in this new edition, a project we hope will inspire a new generation of Anishinaabe writers. The republication of George Kenny’s book is important not only because he was one of those who broke “literary trail” (Armstrong xix), but also for the poetic craft, “the stark honesty of his images“ (xviii), expressed in the texts. Although a reviewer in Canadian Literature considered his writing “rough in places,” she also acknowledged that there is “a refreshing colloquialism in his poetry which suits the often stark pictures drawn” (Popham 109). These stories and poems by an emerging writer evoke a variety of themes: besides the stereotypes and the racism which Kenny exposes and the difficult choices his generation of Native people were faced with in an era in which residential schools were still in existence, he shows us anger, despair, fear of death, and grief. But we also find here the quest for individual fulfillment as well as love and romance — two themes Ningewance found difficult to translate due to cultural differences, as she explains in her translation notes. Cree/Métis scholar Emma LaRocque states that “George Kenny’s ‘people’ are not always beautiful, but they are always consummately human” (106). LaRocque, who (besides my own discussions of Kenny’s work in my book Travelling Knowledges: Positioning the Immigrant Reader of Aboriginal Literatures in Canada) is the only scholar who comments on Kenny’s work in some detail,4 understands this emphasis on Indigenous people’s humanity as a counter narrative to the colonial discourse of dehumanization and, as such, a form of resistance writing. At the same 4. Kenny’s work is included in Penny Petrone’s historical overview Native Literature in Canada (1990) and in encyclopedia articles on Aboriginal Literature as in The Concise Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature (2011) and in the Handbook of Native American Literature, edited by Andrew Wiget (2013).

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time, Kenny writes “for the love of words,” as he showed in his reading of another poem about his father at a 2004 conference with that title: How He Served every dawn, he brought his woman some portion of his journey. …................................................ through the dawns of their lives how he served was his journey” (34). Originally published in 1977, Indians Don’t Cry was republished in 1982, and included an additional eight poems and two short stories. The current edition is based on that expanded edition. These additions express the darker side of Kenny’s writing, ending with a poem that speaks about an Ojibway youth whose nights were filled with dreams about escaping the “dirty Indian” sneers in school. In an early review of Indians Don’t Cry, Joan McGrath commented on one of the final pieces in the collection, the short story “Dirty Indian,” as “a piece that should be required reading for Canadian students — and their teachers” (McGrath). This story also raises the issue of violence against Native women, a theme further emphasized in the poem “Ojibway Girl.” While George Kenny wrote love stories, he also addressed the particularly vulnerable situation of Native women in colonial, patriarchal Canada. Given the news stories today about the many Indigenous missing and murdered women, I want to end this afterword with a poem by George Kenny which appeared in the Ontario Indian newspaper in 1982 (but not in Indians Don’t Cry), the same issue in which the interview-based article by Dineen was published. Written in his trademark style of the personal voice implicated in the story, “News Girl” reminds us that Indigenous publications from 1982 are still relevant today:

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News Girl Every weeknight, I walk south to College Street from 564 Spadina where I buy the early morning edition of the Globe and Mail. I pay 20 cents, add a dime for a tip, feeling a sad sort of contempt for those news vendors. In the last week of April, there was an Indian girl with thin, broken-nailed fingers feverously clutching a cigarette. I wasn’t shocked that night when she offered not only the early morning edition of the Globe and Mail to take home but also her thin and wasted-looking body. I have not been a good man, I have found evil coming from me in my prior experiences with women. And I was tempted again, but maybe because the News Girl reminded me of one of my sisters or maybe because I just got paid earlier that day. For whatever reason, I gave the News Girl 50 dollars to help her on her way to beyond the Rocky Mountains, to the shores of the vast beckoning ocean where she said her parents lived. I’d like to offer a lot of different endings for this narration, endings like

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I saw her going into the Silver Dollar later that night or I got a letter of thanks from some place beyond the B.C. mountains but I don’t know what happened to that News Girl though I feel a sad sort of wonder. It is a poem like this one that makes me hope that a republication of Kenny’s writing from the 1970s and early 1980s will inspire him to share his later work. In him, to quote Joan McGrath again, “a people have a spokesperson and an advocate whose voice can speak harsh and hurtful truths unacceptable from an outsider.”

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References Works by George Kenny Kenny, George. “Christmas Carol.” The Native Perspective 2, 1 (December 1976). 27. ———. “Just Another Bureaucrat.” The Native Perspective 2, 2 (January–February 1977). 19. ———. “Welcome.” The Native Perspective 2, 4 (May 1977). 24. ———. “The Shooting of a Beaver.” The Native Perspective 2, 5 (July–August 1977). 74. ———. Indians Don’t Cry. Toronto: Chimo Publishing, 1977. ———. October Stranger. Written in collaboration with Denis Lacroix. Toronto: Chimo Publishing, 1978. ———. “The Drowning.” The Native Perspective 2, 10 (1978). 30. ———. “I Don’t Know this October Stranger.” Tawow 6, 2 (1978). 6. ———. Guest editor. Tawow: Canadian Indian Cultural Magazine 6, 2 (1978). ———. “Guest Editorial: “Northwestern Ontario…. The People Then and Now.” Tawow 6, 2 (1978). 6–7. ———. “Soft and Trembling Cry.” Canadian Fiction Magazine 36/37 (1980). 21–5. ———. Indians Don’t Cry. Revised and expanded edition. Toronto: NC Press, 1982. ———. “The Bull-Frogs Got Theirs (as now I do).” In First People, First Voices, ed. Penny Petrone. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1983. 188–9. ———. “Note to Carl Ray from George Kenny.” In The Sound of the Drum: The Sacred Art of the Anishnabe, ed. Mary E. (Beth) Southcott. Erin, ON: Boston Mills Press, 1984. 17–9. ———. “Whee-skay-chak and Kah-kah-ge.” In Four Feathers: Poems and Stories By Canadian Native Authors/Vier Federn: Gedichte und Geschichten kanadischer Indianer/innen und Métis, ed. by Hartmut Lutz. Osnabrueck, Germany: VC-Verlagscooperative GMBH, 1992. 130–9. ———. “News Girl.” Ontario Indian 5, 4 (May 1982): 37. ———. Selected poems in Native Poetry in Canada: A Contemporary Anthology, ed. Jeannette C. Armstrong and Lally Grauer. Peterborough: Broadview Press, 2001. 193–8. ———. “How He Served.” Studies in Canadian Literature/Études En Littérature Canadienne 31, 1 (2006). 49. ———. Memoir. Unpublished.

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Film Adaptation Collins, Alan, dir. October Stranger. Toronto: R.C. Ellis Enterprises, 1985.

Secondary Sources Akiwenzie-Damm, Kateri. “First Peoples Literature in Canada.” In Hidden in Plain Sight, ed. David R. Newhouse, Cora J. Voyageur, and Dan Beavon. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005. 169–76. Armstrong, Jeannette C. “Four Decades: An Anthology of Canadian Native Poetry from 1960 to 2000.” In Native Poetry in Canada: A Contemporary Anthology, ed. Jeannette C. Armstrong and Lally Grauer. Peterborough: Broadview Press, 2001. xv–xx. Armstrong, Jeannette C. and Lally Grauer. “George Kenny.” In Native Poetry in Canada: A Contemporary Anthology, ed. Jeannette C. Armstrong and Lally Grauer. Peterborough: Broadview Press, 2001. 193–4. Buller, Ed. “All Native Theatre Company To Represent Canada In Monaco.” The Native Perspective 2, 6 (October 1977): 57. Buller, James H. “Introduction.” In October Stranger, by George Kenny, in collaboration with Denis Lacroix. Toronto: Chimo Publishing, 1978. v–vii. Cook, Méira. The House on Sugarbush Road. Winnipeg: Enfield and Wizenty, 2012. Dineen, Claire (Midnight Sun). “George Kenny: A rebel against cute Indian books.” Ontario Indian 5, 4 (May 1982): 34–7. Eigenbrod, Renate. Travelling Knowledges: Positioning the Im/Migrant Reader of Aboriginal Literatures in Canada. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 2005. ———. “‘For the child taken, for the parent left behind’: Residential School Narratives as Acts of ‘Survivance.’” English Studies in Canada 38, 3–4 (2012): 277–97. Gruber, Eva. “The ‘AlterNative’ Frontier: Native Canadian Writing in German/y.” In Translating Canada, ed. Luise von Flotow and Reingard M. Nishik. Ottawa: University of Ottawa. 2007. 111–42. Highway, Tomson. Iskooniguni Iskweewuk: The Rez Sisters in its original version: Cree. Markham, ON: Fifth House, 2010. Kinew, Kathi. “Native Students Role in Establishing the Department of Native Studies.” In Pushing the Margins: Native and Northern Studies, ed. Jill E. Oakes. Winnipeg: Native Studies Press, 2000. 15–32. LaRocque, Emma. Defeathering the Indian. Agincourt, AB: The Book Society of Canada, 1975. ———. When the Other is Me: Native Resistance Discourse, 1850–1990. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 2010. Lutz, Hartmut. “Native Literatures in Canada Before Oka: An Introduction.” In Approaches: Essays in Native North American Studies and Literatures, ed. Hartmut Lutz. Wissner Verlag, Germany, 2002. 109–25.

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McGrath, Joan. Review of Indians Don’t Cry. CM Magazine 11, 5 (September 1983). http:// www.umanitoba.ca/cm/cmarchive/vol11no5/indiansdontcry.html. Ningewance, Patricia. “Aabiding E-niibing Gichi-mookomaanakiing/Once on a Summer in the United States.” In Manitowapow: Aboriginal Writings from the Land of Water, ed. Niigaanwewewidam James Sinclair and Warren Cariou. Winnipeg: Highwater Press, 2011. 229–34. Petrone, Penny. Native Literature in Canada: From the Oral tradition to the Present. Toronto: Oxford University Press, 1990. Popham, Elizabeth. “Extrapolations.” Canadian Literature 102 (Autumn 1984): 106–9. Ruffo, Amand Garnet. “Where the Voice Was Coming From.” In Across Cultures/Across Borders: Canadian Aboriginal and Native American Literatures, ed. Paul DePasquale, Renate Eigenbrod, and Emma LaRocque. Peterborough: Broadview Press, 2010. 171–93. Schäfer, Henning. “A Short History of Native Canadian Theatre.” In Indigenous North American Drama: A Multivocal History, ed. Birgit Däwes. New York: State University of New York Press, Albany, 2013. 19–37. ———. “Disappointing Expectations: Native Canadian Theatre and the Politics of Authenticity.” In Embracing the Other: Addressing Xenophobia in the New Literatures in English, ed. Dunja M. Mohr. Cross/Cultures 95, ASNEL Papers 11. Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2008. 307–25. Taylor, Drew Hayden. “Alive and Well: Native Theatre in Canada.” In Literary Pluralities, ed. Christl Verduyn. Peterborough: Broadview Press, 1998. 224–31. Ternette, Nick. “Alienation. Indians Don’t Cry.” City Magazine 9, 4 (Winter 1987/88): 45 Toye, William, ed. The Concise Oxford Companion to Canadian Literature. 2nd ed. Toronto: Oxford University Press, 2011. Wiget, Andrew, ed. Handbook of Native American Literature. New York: Routledge, 2013.

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Remembering Renate Eigenbrod A wonderful wife, mother, grandmother, a loving and generous friend, and a passionate scholar and teacher. Miigwech Renate. Dr. Renate Eigenbrod (december 2, 1944 – may 8, 2014) This book honours the legacy of Renate Eigenbrod, who passed away shortly before this version of Indians Don’t Cry went to press. Renate worked tirelessly on this project, first approaching Warren Cariou and the University of Manitoba Press to ask that it be included in the First Voices, First Texts series. For years she worked closely with George Kenny to ensure that his complex and beautiful poems and stories would continue to be heard and read for years to come. She fundraised to have the book translated into Anishinaabemowin, a gift that not only demonstrates her commitment to Indigenous cultures and literatures but her dedication to the revitalization and use of our ancestral languages. Any who spent time with her knows that not only her words and work reside in this book but also her determined and enthusiastic spirit. Renate Eigenbrod’s passion as an ethical and responsible colleague, ally, and advocate alongside Indigenous peoples continues in the work of all of us. Her gifts of laughter, food, and words full of love and brilliance will never dissipate. While she will be deeply missed, she was also fiercely adamant that she worked not for herself but for a future full of meaningful relationships and change. It is in this spirit that she hoped Indians Don’t Cry would be read, enjoyed, and reflected upon.

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