David A. Robertson - Black Water, family, legacy and blood memory

D ad and I are sitting at a caf by my work. Hes ordered an Earl Grey tea with some sweetener. I have a decaf coffee splashed with almond milk. Im facing Dad and a mirror, and I trade glances between him and my reflection, wondering where the years have gone. Im growing my hair out, and all I can see are the grey strands. I tease my wife, Jill (who is Mtis), that Im aiming for a man bun, but really I think Im trying to connect with something that Ive been working hard to understand since I was in my late teens. That is, what it means to be Cree. I guess I feel as if long hair would make me more Indigenous. Growing up, I had this vision of what an Indian is, and like it or not, that vision, despite all the work Ive done, has stayed with me. In reality, a lot of my Indigenous friends have braided hair and a lot have short hair. Its a good thing my hair grows so damn slow; Ive got time to figure out if Im bugging Jill or trying to be cultural.

Thats the thing about journeys: theyre never really over. Ill probably be doing this when Im Dads age. Maybe I wont be deconstructing the reasons why Im growing out my hair, but it will have something to do with identity. It will have something to do with what it means to be Cree.

My dad is Donald Alexander RobertsonDulas, to those in our home community, Norway House Cree Nation. Hes got an easy way about him, always has, but its nothing to do with his eighty-two years. Everything he does is purposeful and measured. For a middle-aged guy living with anxiety, I find comfort in the way he exudes calmness. Its in the way he talks; Dad says something only when he believes he has something important to say. Hes thoughtful and deliberate. Ive learned to be patient in speaking with him, to watch his eyes, which are smaller than they appear behind prescription lenses, while they search for the right words. And then to listen carefully, because he wont repeat himself. Ive learned through practice, because conversations with Dad arent new. Weve been at it for a while, and often have sprawling discussions that somehow lead us into a better recognition of ourselves. The caf is a frequent setting for our talks, but they dont exclusively occur heretheres also the golf course, the car, Mom and Dads house, a restaurant both of us can eat at (Im vegan, and hes got no large intestine), or before the lights dim in a movie theatre.

At the caf, Dad gives me most of his attention, except when a friend walks by, which isnt uncommon. He used to run the place I work at now, the Manitoba First Nations Education Resource Centre (MFNERC), in the early 2000s and still knows people there. He likes to have coffee with me, then see his pals. He roams the hallways with his easy stride and seeks people out. Hes got a laugh that echoes through the buildingyou know when hes aroundand its infectious. People say that Dad and I have the same laugh. People say that Dad and I have the same walk. If you looked quickly at a picture of Dads basketball team at Cook Christian Training School in the mid-1950s, youd think that Id pulled a Marty McFly and was standing there in his place. I like that we have these similarities.

Weve been having these conversations for almost thirty years. Ill ask Dad a question about his life, referencing any period between 1935, the year of his birth, and now. Hell think about it over a sip of Earl Grey tea, then respond. Itll be either the most thoughtful answer you can imagine, one that feels as though hes prepared for it (and he very likely has), or utterly dismissive, disappointing, because I want to know more, because I expect more or at least something different.

You know, he said to me recently, you cant tell my story from my perspective. This is your story, even if its about me. It has to be that way.

His story. My story. Im not sure its that simple. Its our story, and whether its about a time in his life or a time in mine, what I wantwhat Ive always wantedis to figure out how his life, my life, and our relationship have shaped who I am.

Time has moved quickly for me as well as for Dad. I notice this when we talk. Sometimes it feels like looking at him is another sort of mirror altogether. Not just because we walk the same or laugh the same. I see in him things I want to be at the age of eighty-two, and things I do not want to be, because of the choices I think he made and how they affected meeven though I cant, even though I wouldnt, change what has happened. Thats confusing for me, but its a reality Ive come to accept, even embrace. From what I understand, Dad, a broad-shouldered, tall Cree, and Mom, English, Irish, and Scottish, with a beautiful smile and flowing brown hair, chose not to raise me and my brothers as Cree to keep us from the difficulties they thought we might face growing up in Winnipeg as First Nations kids. I dont think Cam and Mike even knew they were IndigenousI certainly didnt, and we never talked about it. Not with Mom and Dad, not with each other.

What do you regret most? I once asked Dad in the car on the way home from an afternoon at our local golf course.