Tracing new paths

Normally, when I write, I like to fill the silence with prerecorded sounds of rain or some Brahms or, if in the right mood, Mahler; but today, my fingers are typing to the guitar strings of “Charlie” by Willie Dunn. I didn’t know the song existed until this morning, when I had the pleasure of meeting Shannon Black Plume (Genest) - one of ATCO's summer students this year. The Kainai Nation member agreed to sit with me and tell me how she came to be in second year of Social Work studies at Mount Royal University: “I need to be a bridge for my people. The history we’re being taught does not define us. It’s not who we are.” – Shannon started.

When I didn’t respond, she went on: “It was my mother’s connection with the Healing Lodge Society as a child-care worker. Once in a while I would volunteer there.” Then, while her dark brown eyes searched the air for memories, the common list of biographical data started to flow out of her mouth: “Both my parents survived the Residential School system. Intergenerational Trauma. Alcoholism and AA meetings…” Then, a new name rang through; one that I almost missed: “That’s why the story of Chanie (Charlie) Wenjack and the Tragically Hip song mean so much to me”. I couldn’t add to the conversation because I didn’t know who Chanie was. “Like Chanie, - Shannon continued - my parents tried to escape their residential school many times – on horseback. But they were caught.”

"This history doesn't define us. This is not what we are"

And yet, Shannon’s narrative didn’t rest in the tragedy. “This history doesn’t define us. This is not what we are.” – she repeated. “We need to tell a new story.” “Colonization has robbed us of our true identity.” “We live in a time when our traditions and western knowledge are coming together. We need to define a new path that we can all follow.” The word path resonated in my ears. It reminded me of the path that took Chanie’s life at the tender age of 12. It made me think of all the countless Indigenous paths that never reach their destinations because the goals are placed so hopelessly far.

When I asked her where her hope came from, she answered: “My daughter.” “Her name is Maadoomsaybuskah, which in the Blood language (Blackfoot) means ‘First dancer out’. It depicts the blessedness and strength of the first person coming out of a sweat lodge.” – she explained. “I’m proud of my daughter. She looks indigenous, even though my husband is French Canadian. She’s a miracle girl. We almost lost her. Prolapse. Her script was written way before she was born. Katie’s (the young girl’s English name) life is a lot different than mine. She has an abundance of self-confidence. That’s how I raised my daughter.” “For me, there has to be a bridge.”

“For me, there has to be a bridge.”

It all made sense now: Shannon’s vision is to work with mothers who, like hers, bring up their children to be proud of the cultures they represent. Because ALL cultures are rich and ALL cultures matter. Chanie Wenjack (or Charlie, as the priests of the residential school renamed him) knew it in his heart. That’s why he was trying to get back home - to the culture that had molded him. But the crude Canadian winter never let him:

Is that the great Wendigo come to look upon my face? / And are the stars exploding down the misty aisle of space / Who's that coming down the track, walking up to me? / Her arms outstretched and waiting, waiting just for me.

Little Charlie Wenjack, shuffling through the snow / Moving down the railway line / Trying to make it home / And he's made it forty miles / Six hundred left to go / It's a long old lonesome journey / Shuffling through the snow. *

(*excerpt from Willie Dunn’s song Charlie)