April Raintree (21 page)

Then I was questioned by the Defense Counsel, Mr. Schneider. He sounded skeptical, at times, even sarcastic. He made different insinuations which made me feel defensive. I felt like it was I, who was on trial by the time he was through with me. He persisted in making me go into depth on some of the incidents and I believed it was just to make me say those words I had stuttered on. I understood full well that it was his job to defend his client in any way he could, but I also felt what he did to me was morally wrong.

After I was allowed off the stand, a recess was called. I headed straight for the washroom. Once there, I threw up. One woman had been in there already. As she helped me, she expressed sympathy. I wished for the moment, that I could stay in the washroom until everyone was gone. I fixed my makeup, braced myself and returned to the courtroom, very grateful that, at least, one person sympathized with me.

The court ruled that there was sufficient evidence to proceed with a trial. That's what the Preliminary Hearing was for. The court also ordered a ban on the publication of evidence which meant I would still have my privacy. On our way back to Winnipeg, Mr. Scott was in good spirits because he had been successful. I was just relieved that this portion was over and done with. There was still the trial ahead.

Cheryl and I left early Saturday morning for Roseau River. We parked where there was a camping area set aside. As we made our way to the main area, we noticed license plates from Montana, the Dakotas, Minnesota and even Arizona. Men, women and children were in traditional tribal costumes. Somewhere in the background, drums could be heard, sounding the heartbeat of the people. Teepees had been set up and Indian women in buckskin dresses now tended to fires, making bannock for curious onlookers.

The main events, as Cheryl had said, were the dance competitions. During the intervals, everyone was invited to participate in the dancing. Cheryl joined in but I stayed on the sidelines. That night, we sat, Indian style, around a bonfire, listening to the songs and tales of Indian singers. Cheryl told me that was probably how it had felt on those long-ago buffalo hunts. I was impressed by all the sights and sounds. It went deeper than just stirrings of pride, regret and even an inner peace. For the first time in my life, I felt as if all of that was part of me, as if I was a part of it. It was curious to feel that way. I had gone expecting to feel embarrassment, maybe even contempt. I looked over at Cheryl. She, too, seemed finally relaxed.

She was deep in conversation with some people on the other side of her. I didn't attempt to join their conversation. I was happy enough just to see the old animation on Cheryl's face as she gestured and talked with her companions. Earlier that evening, an Indian family had set up their tent next to ours and had come over to offer help. At the end of the ceremonies, Cheryl and I returned to our tent.

“Well, did you enjoy yourself?” Cheryl asked.

“Yes… but, in this atmosphere, everything is staged. It's romanticized. On Monday we'll go home and to what? I'll go back to see the drunken Indians on Main Street and I'll feel the same shame. It's like having two worlds in my life that can't be mixed. And I've made my choice on how I want to live my everyday life.”

After pausing to think this over, Cheryl said, “Yeah, but Indian blood runs through your veins, April. To deny that, you deny a basic part of yourself. You'll never be satisfied until you can accept that fact.”

“How do you do it, Cheryl? How is it that you're so proud when there's so much against being a native person?”

“For one thing, I don't see it that way. Maybe I have put too much faith in my dreams. But if alcohol didn't have such a destructive force on us, we'd be a fabulous people. And that's what I see. I see all the possibilities that we have. Nancy, for instance, you never did think much of her when I was attending university, did you? Well, she does drink and does other things that you would never dream of doing. But she also holds a steady job and she's been at minimum wage for a long time. They use her and she knows it. And she gets depressed about it. But with her education and the way things are, she knows she doesn't have many choices. She helps support her mother and her sister and a brother. The reason why she left home in the first place was her father. He was an alcoholic who beat her mother up and raped Nancy. Okay, she doesn't have much. Maybe she never will have much, but what she's got she shares with her family. And she's not an exception.”

“I didn't know that,” I said. We sat for a time in silence, before I spoke again.

“When we lived with our parents, I used to take you to the park. The white kids would call the native kids all sorts of names. If they had let us, I would have played with the white kids. Never the native kids. To me, the white kids were the winners all the way. I guess what I feel today started back then. It would take an awful lot for me to be able to change what I've felt for a lifetime. Shame doesn't dissolve overnight.

“I can understand that. I've been identifying with the Indian people ever since I was a kid. The Metis people share more of the same problems with the Indian people. But one of the things that Indian people had which was theirs from the beginning was spirituality. That's why it's easier to identify with them.

“I wrote this one piece in university but they wouldn't publish it because they said it was too controversial. I still know it by heart. Want to hear it?”

“Sure,” I said. There was little in our conversation we hadn't discussed before, but sitting there in our tent, surrounded by proud Indians, everything seemed different.

White Man, to you my voice is like the unheard call in the wilderness. It is there, though you do not hear. But, this once, take the time to listen to what I have to say
.

Your history is highlighted by your wars. Why is it all right for your nations to conquer each other in your attempts at dominion? When you sailed to our lands, you came with your advanced weapons. You claimed you were a progressive, civilized people
.

And today, White Man, you have the ultimate weapons. Warfare which could destroy all men, all creation. And you allow such power to be in the hands of those few who have such little value in true wisdom
.

White Man, when you first came, most of our tribes began with peace and trust in dealing with you. We showed you how to survive in our homelands. We were willing to share with you our vast wealth
.

Instead of repaying us with gratitude, you, White Man, turned on us. You turned on us with your advanced weapons and your cunning trickery
.

When we, the Indian people, realized your intentions, we rose to do battle, to defend our nations, our homes, our food, our lives
.

And for our efforts, we are labelled savages and our battles are called massacres
.

And when our primitive weapons could not match those
which you had years and experience to perfect, we realized that peace could not be won, unless our mass destruction took place
.

And so we looked to treaties. And this time, we ran into your cunning trickery. And so, we lost our lands, our freedom, and we were confined to reservations
.

And we are held in contempt
.

“As long as the Sun shall rise.…” For you, White Man, these are words without meaning
.

White Man, there is much in the deep, simple wisdom of our forefathers. We were here for centuries. We kept the land, the waters, the air, clean and pure, for our children and for our children's children
.

Now that you are here, White Man, the rivers bleed with contamination. The winds moan with the heavy weight of pollution in the air
.

The land vomits up the poisons which have been fed into it
.

Our Mother Earth is no longer clean and healthy. She is dying
.

White Man, in your greedy rush for money and power, you are destroying. Why must you have power over everything? Why can't you live in peace and harmony? Why can't you share the beauty and the wealth which Mother Earth has given us?

You do not stop at confining us to small pieces of rock and muskeg
.

Where are the animals of the wilderness to go, when there is no more wilderness?

Why are the birds of the skies, falling to their extinction?

Is there joy for you, when you bring down the mighty trees of our forests?

No living thing seems sacred to you. In the name of progress, everything is cut down. And progress means only profits
.

White Man, you say that we are a people without dignity. But when we are sick, weak, hungry, poor, when there is nothing for us, but death, what are we to do?

We cannot accept a life which you have imposed on us
.

You say that we are drunkards, that we live for drinking. But drinking is a way of dying. Dying without enjoying life
.

You have given us many diseases. It is true that you have found immunizations for many of these diseases. But this was done more for your own benefit
.

The worst disease, for which there is no immunity, is the disease of alcoholism. And you condemn us for being its easy
victims
.

And those who do not condemn us, weep for us and pity us
.

So, we the Indian people, we are still dying. The land we lost is dying, too
.

White Man, you have our land now
.

Respect it. As we once did
.

Take care of it. As we once did
.

Love it. As we once did
.

White Man, our wisdom is dying. As we are. But take heed, if Indian wisdom dies, you, White Man, will not be far behind
.

So weep not for us
.

Weep for yourselves
.

And for your children
.

And for their children
.

Because you are taking everything today
.

And tomorrow, there will be nothing left for them
.

To me, Cheryl's message was emotional and powerful. When she finished, we sat in silence. The only sounds were those of the crickets. Somewhere in the distance, a child began to cry.

CHAPTER 14

After that long weekend, I tried to keep the feeling I had alive, even though I was back in the city. I noticed Cheryl had gotten some good out of it, too, because she made more appearances around the house. She also seemed more relaxed, more willing to discuss events concerning native people that appeared in the newspaper and on television. No matter what the issues were, she always found some way to defend the native side of the question. Now when she began telling me that she was going to the Friendship Centre, I knew without doubt that she was indeed going there. The old fire had been rekindled. Cheryl began tearing clippings out of the paper, presumably to act on them, if possible. For Cheryl, I knew it was probable.

I returned to working part-time but the scenes I saw, on my way to and from work, on Main Street, gradually made that weekend's emotions disappear. I remembered my original evaluation of these people. Everyone always referred to them as ‘those Indians on Main Street', but there were Metis people there, as well. No, I felt no affection, sympathy, empathy, or anything else, for those native people. But for Cheryl, I faked an interest. So when she asked me to go to the Friendship Centre with her one evening, I agreed.

We decided to walk or rather Cheryl decided to walk. Walking was Cheryl's chief mode of transportation even in winter. I suspected she was also snubbing my little car. However, it was a beautiful evening to be out, the kind where you could breathe deeply and smell the delicious night air. So, I enjoyed the long walk, going there. Cheryl and I talked about the Steindalls kind of longingly. We hadn't talked about our foster families very much, just in passing remarks. We admitted that we both felt too embarrassed to go back and see them, having been out of touch with them for so long. And perhaps our main desire would have been jest to see and ride the horses. Cheryl and I decided we would go horseback riding a lot more often than we had been doing. It would be one way for me to get her into my car. Our car.

When we got to the Friendship Centre, we entered a large recreation room, filled with elderly native people. Cheryl mixed among them immediately, with me tagging along behind her. While she conversed with them, I could only smile patronizing smiles and nod when it was expected. I knew that Cheryl saw their quiet beauty, their simple wisdom. All I could see were watery eyes, leathery, brown skin, aged, uneducated natives who had probably not done much in their lives.

Cheryl explained that some of the people were in the city for either medical reasons or they were visiting relatives. When they returned north to their homes, they would resume fishing, trapping and committing themselves to crafts,

“One thing, you wouldn't like is the way they live in winter,” Cheryl said to me. “Some of them have to walk miles and miles just for their water. They roll up newspapers inside their jackets for extra warmth. Cardboards and plastics replace broken window panes. Their furniture is wooden crates and blankets on the floor. Well, you've seen the pictures in some of the books I've given you.”

“Sure, but I thought that was in the olden days. I thought they had new houses now.”

“New houses, yeah, but cheaply made, no plumbing, no sewer system. Besides, those housing programs were thought up by Indian Affairs, which means only Treaty Indians get any of the supposed benefit out of them. Non-status Indians and Metis get welfare and that's it.”

I didn't know what to say. I felt it was good that they didn't have the federal government to rely on, that it would help them be independent to a certain point. But I also knew what Cheryl said was true about non-status Indians and Metis having hard times finding employment.