Motorcycles & Sweetgrass Quotes

Those with darker skin who were not yet adults and free of this mandatory education called it the Angry Place. Still, she put up with it. It had taken a long time to get here and she instinctively knew it would take her a much longer time to get home. Wherever that was––she had no idea if it was north, south, east or west. It was just far away. As soon as she arrived, she was told stories of one of the girls trying to run away. She wasn’t the type to break the rules like that. Instead, she decided to deal with the present by concentrating on the past and the future: remembering the family she had just left, and imagining the family that she would someday have.

He lay there for hours, fading in and out of consciousness, bits and pieces of past lives trying to claw their way to the surface.

Wendigos, his long-dead mother. Women and men he’d known, fought and loved. Hunting deer. Buffalo. Whales. Creation. More memories than a hundred people could possibly have, yet they were all his. He just lay there, as his past ran over him, like pages from his life randomly flipping by.

Then, from the recesses of his damaged mind, she appeared.

The face that had once stopped him from wandering the country, the body that had made him forget all the others (at that time anyway) and the smile that had made him hold his breath.

Even though the rider’s eyes were hidden, the crow could feel its piercing gaze. The rider lifted its helmet a few inches until only its mouth was visible. And from that mouth came a loud caw. Not a human imitating a crow, but what seemed to the crow an authentic crow caw. The crow had been around for a few years and knew the difference. Crows do communicate, in their own way, and “I'm back” is what the crow heard.

To her, as chief, White politicians, while having the potential to be devious, self-serving and a general pain in the ass, were less stressful than the over twelve hundred people she represented, most of whom she was related to, all tugging at her pant legs with suggestions about what to do with the new land. Three hundred acres was an almost twenty-percent increase in the size of the community. Every member of the band had an opinion on the purpose and destiny of that land. And they all had a very strong need to share their opinions with her, whether she wanted to hear them or not. […] A love of the land, which had once united Aboriginal people, was now tearing them apart.

Her husband had been chief, but ever since he passed away, Maggie had felt obligated to see to it that the things he had started were finished––so she ran and was acclaimed in a sympathy vote. They had fought a lot during the last few months of their marriage and occasionally, on days like this, she couldn't help wondering if this inherited responsibility had been her husband's lasting revenge.

“Making me wait is a luxury you won’t have much longer,” [Lillian] said in Anishnawbe, the language of her people. She spoke it like all the old-timers did, with strength and confidence, not hesitantly and softly like the youngsters who took the language in university, if they took it at all.

Maggie […] responded, also in Anishnawbe, but with not quite the same command. Still, she was more accomplished with her Native tongue than most of the community. If nothing else, that was the legacy Lillian and her husband, may his soul rest in peace, would leave behind. All their kids spoke the language––some better than others, but at least they spoke it. And in this day and age, that was their little miracle.

“Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. It’s an Anishnawbe thing.”

“Mom, I'm Anishnawbe. We all are.”

Lillian put her hand on Maggie’s shoulder. “No child, you’re what they call nowadays a First Nations. They don’t necessarily mean the same thing.”

Of course it wasn’t solely Maggie’s decision; there was the Band Council to go through, as well as a bunch of committees and boards to deal with. White people may have invented bureaucracy, but their relationship with the Department of Indian Affairs had taught the First Nations people of Canada how to excel at and, in their own way, indigenize it. All land utilization ideas and economic development schemes started their journey on Maggie’s desk. And she was getting tired of it.

Land...no issue affected Native peoples and non-Native peoples so strongly and yet so differently. On the one hand, White people thought land was there to be owned and utilized. […] Otherwise it was wasted. […] Native people, on the other hand, saw themselves as being part of Nature. It was a big huge intertwining web. You could no more own the land under your feet than you could the sky over your head […].

But colonization had a nasty tendency to work its way into the DNA, the beliefs and philosophies and the very ways of life of the people being colonized. Nowadays, some of the people on Maggie’s Reserve, other than having a good tan, were indistinguishable from White people.

Lillian, however, had been what could be called an old-fashioned Indian, and she had taught her family respect for this land.

“You have to understand, your mother came from a time when people still believed in mystical and magical things. The forest was alive. There were spirits everywhere. […] Today’s world is very different.

How active or magical is your Band Office? Not a lot seems alive today to those old-fashioned Indians. I think she wanted you to understand some of what she felt growing up. It made life more interesting, and more Anishnawbe. I think Lillian wanted that for you.”

“She was a very passionate young woman. Grandmothers aren’t born grandmothers. Wise men and women aren’t born wise––wisdom is something achieved over years of experience. And for some, that experience includes…skinny-dipping.”

“Virgil, I loved my mother more than anybody else could possibly know. But she died. She had to die. We all do. And while it is sad that I will never see her again, I know that she was contributing to what we call the circle of life. She passed on so that somewhere out there, a baby could be born in her place. You know how much she loved her grandkids, all kids. This was not a great sacrifice for her.”

“Some people think everything we are is rooted in the past. It is, partially. But like evolution tells us, if things don't develop, change, evolve, adapt, they die. I believe that. So I and what I do are part of that evolution. My heart and spirit are with our grandfathers and grandmothers, but my hands and feet are in the now. I do what I do to honour our ancestors, knowing that if they lived today they would probably be doing the same thing I am. I may never use what I've developed, but it’s better to have it and not need it, than to need it and not have it.”

Time travel was not a thing of wonder, of amazement and opportunity. It was an inescapable and soul-wrenching reality: a curse. Luckily, every morning when he woke up, it was rare that he’d remember the images of the preceding night. The only evidence of his time travel were the sweat-soaked sheets, occasionally wet with urine, and his sore gums from grinding non-existent teeth. For decades those nights had caused him to grind his teeth, until there was little left and they had to be removed.

Anishnawbe legends told of ancient and immense thunderbirds, their actions responsible for the kind of storm he currently found himself driving through. […] They, like the man on the motorcycle, had been born in an age when gods, monsters, humans and animals ate at the same table. Now man ate alone, while animals begged for scraps. The others were unable to survive in the new times and had disappeared into the folds of time. Who knew gods and monsters could and did fall victim to evolution?

“Unlike you, I’m trying to avoid dying. For my people, the novelty wore off several generations ago.”

“Your people are my people.”

“Tell that to all the priests and ministers who used to look after my people.[…]”

“[…] Well, blame free will and all that. […] [M]y friend, we both loved Lillian. I didn’t think we should be enemies. And many people seem to really want and love you, so I––“

“Sorry, but I am not loved like you are. I am not loved, I am beloved. There's a substantial difference […] When you’re beloved, you get all the same warm and fuzzies as you do when you’re loved, but there’s a lot less responsibility involved. […] You know, every parent wants their kid to grow up like you, but most of them are actually closer to me. Perfection is boring. Flaws are interesting.”

“[…] rumour has it the Department of Indian and Northern Development could be looking for a new minister. Anything is possible in politics. I like Native people, Kait. My parents used to have a lovely Algonquin lady clean our cottage once a week. I think she was Algonquin. I know she was Native. I’ve eaten deer. I have that leather vest. I’ve been to a powwow. I know the score.”

It has been said that the land does not forget; it is in fact the memory of all who live on it. In today’s world, raccoons live closer to the earth than most people, so their memory too is longer.

“You and your community had better have some good ideas about what to do with that land. You can’t just let it be. People in the municipality won’t stand for it after all these headaches.”

“But they were letting it just lie there until now. It was an abandoned cottage and a practically unused woodlot. Why do we have to do something different?”

The MP smiled at the chief’s naiveté. “Because, my friend, it’s human nature.”

“You’d fight him? Nanabush…if it is Nanabush?”

“As you said, this is about your mother, my sister. Most people think Nanabush is a lovable goof, a children’s character. But he is more human than most humans, he has all their nobility, and all their faults––magnified. He’s a wild card, Virgil. I am going to have to be as wild as him.”

Virgil remembered Dakota’s parents had strongly embraced the Canadian lifestyle. They probably hadn’t seen fit to fill her head with stories of Anishnawbe history or culture. Their daughter should have her feet firmly planted in the here and now, they thought. […] Dakota knew more French than Anishnawbe, and more English history than Anishnawbe history. Her only connection to the past had been Lillian. But now wasn't exactly the time to fill her in on the details. It would have to wait.

“You remember those stories about the trickster, the ones that Grandma told us? Him,” Virgil said.

“Who is Nanabush, to you? You tell me.”

Virgil mentally went through all the stories his grandmother had told him over the years, and also through what he’d read recently. “He’s a hero, a fool, a teacher, someone silly, someone clever––my grandmother would say he’s us.”

“You know, I never thought I’d see the day when Native people would be paying good money for something as available as water. White people I understand. They like to buy and own everything, but man, Native people too? That’s when you know something is wrong.”

“Never underestimate the need for some sheer silliness,” said John. “That’s why some people drink. That’s why some people take drugs. Of course that's the cheap way out. A good bout of complete nonsense now and again would keep everybody sane. You can quote me on that.”

And that’s how it happened to a cousin of mine. I told you it was a long story. They’re the best cause you can wrap one around you like a nice warm blanket.